


Kitty, Kitty

by Phoenixstrike



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Romance, Squee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixstrike/pseuds/Phoenixstrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HP/DM slash. When Harry's Auror partner is hit with a mystery spell, Harry finds himself in charge of looking after an adorable, if somewhat petulant, cat. DH-compliant/EWE. Fluffy, angst-free eventual Drarry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> _Harry Potter is © J. K. Rowling and all other companies with rights to the HP universe. I do not own any part of the copyright, and this fanfiction makes no money._  
>  **Pairings:** Harry/Draco, implied Ron/Hermione  
>  **Warnings:** Nothing in this one really. Bit of sex, lots of fluff, no angst.  
>  **A/N:** This story was inspired by my own recent trip to an RSPCA centre to acquire a cat. I now have a jet black kitten called Bellatrix, and have since decided that cats are natural Slytherins. I don't expect this to be too long; around 20 or 30k sounds about right.

Harry pushed open the glass door of the Stubbington Ark RSPCA centre and hesitated slightly before entering. It was the fourth time this week he’d received a call from them, telling him that, yet again, his cat had been found soaking wet and in the garden of an elderly neighbour miles from its registered address, and could he please come and collect him at his earliest convenience? He sighed, unsure whether to feel exasperated or amused. 

“Hi, my name is Harry Potter,” he said to the now familiar-looking girl with hair plaits behind the desk. “Um, you have my cat? Er, again?”

“Yes, Mr Potter,” the girl- Hannah, according to her name tag with a picture of a Labrador on it- replied, somewhat irritably, Harry thought. But then again, it was Friday, and he’d been here every day since Monday with the exception of Wednesday. He was fed up with the blasted animal too. “I’ll get someone to take you through.” 

“Thanks,” he said, and sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area. Five minutes later, a young man with a stupid pointy goatee beard appeared. It was the same man who had shown Harry to his cat last time. And the time before that, too. Bugger. 

“I was extremely surprised when we had a call from a concerned resident, reporting the cat in her garden again, Mr Potter,” said the man. “This is a new record for us. Having the same cat picked up and brought here four times in a lifetime is a lot; four in a week is unheard of.”

“I’ll pay for his care, of course,” Harry replied quickly, pulling out a Muggle wallet filled with notes that Kingsley Shacklebolt had given him for emergencies. He wondered whether this counted as an emergency or not. The man- Chris- held up a hand. 

“That’s not necessary, sir. Just please keep the animal at the address his collar has him registered at. Which is thirty miles from here. If he comes into us again, I’m afraid we may have to begin proceedings to confiscate the animal.”

“OK,” Harry said, inwardly wondering how many people he would have to Obliviate to make forget that he was ever here at all. There was Chris, Hannah, the girl who worked on Monday... “Can I get my cat now, please?”

Chris led Harry to the now familiar cattery located a short walk from the main entrance. He began to walk past the pens of cats until he reached the pen in which his cat was located. 

Situated inside was an extremely pissed-off looking pure-white, slender cat, sat stiffly on the ground, pointedly ignoring the cat bed and climbing post with a most haughty, petulant expression on its face. It was twitching its tail slightly in great annoyance, and looked as if it might scratch anyone who were foolish enough to put their hand in with it. It was clearly thoroughly fed up. Harry bit back the laugh that was threatening to boil over. 

“Hello, Draco, did you miss me?” he cooed at the cat, and the cat turned a pair of angry grey eyes to him. Harry was quite positive that the cat was glaring. Chris opened the cage and scooped the cat out of his pen. 

“Unusual name for a cat,” he commented. Harry sniggered.

“Yeah, well, he’s an unusual sort of cat,” he said. “OK, _Draco_ , into your basket.” He held open the door of the wicker cat basket that had now become an essential item to keep shrunken down in his mokeskin pouch. The cat refused to get in. “Oh come on, kitty.” He picked the cat up and scratched its ears. The cat purred almost in spite of itself, and reluctantly got into the basket. Harry closed the door. 

“You know, that cat is not neutered. We could do it for you here for forty quid,” Chris said. Draco hissed from his basket, and Harry somehow managed to keep his face straight. 

“Thanks, but I don’t think he’d like that too much. Besides, he’s not really a fan of the female cats, if you know what I mean. You don’t need to worry,” Harry replied, deadpanned, and took a moment to enjoy the confused look on Chris’ face. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, and the fact that Kingsley was more than likely going to give him a bollocking yet again for this, he couldn’t deny that this whole thing was rather amusing. “I’ll, er, be going now then, shall I?”

Ten minutes later, and after a lot of paperwork and apologies, Harry emerged from the Ark, complete with feline. He waited until he was sure he was out of earshot, then uttered to the cat, “Malfoy, I’m going to fucking kill you.” He dashed off the path and into the hedgerow and, once he was certain they were alone, he cast a privacy ward around them both and opened the cage; the cat immediately sprung from it. Seconds later there stood naked a five-foot-eleven-inches tall man where the cat had been, looking as arrogant as it was possible to look when one was cupping their genitals in a desperate attempt for modesty and wearing a red velvet collar (complete with an Automatic Extension Charm so it didn’t choke him), name tag and bell. Harry pulled out a shrunken set of Auror robes from his pouch, resized them, and then handed them to Malfoy. 

“Potter, I-” Malfoy began, but Harry cut him off.

“Tell me, Malfoy, what part of ‘Stealth and Tracking’ did you not fully understand?” he snapped, as Malfoy yanked the collar over his head and pulled on the robes. Harry was satisfied to note that Malfoy looked incredibly flustered after his little visit yet again to the cattery; his cheeks were tinged pink with what Harry guessed was embarrassment. He reached into his pouch once more and retrieved Malfoy’s wand, handing it to him. “All you had to do was lie low in the rose bushes for an hour and try to gather some evidence, and you couldn’t even manage to do that right. Kingsley’s going to have our arses for this, you know.” He pulled the Muggle woollen jumper from his own body and pulled on his own set of Auror robes. “Let’s get this over with, then.” And with a crack, they both Apparated to the Ministry. 

*

“…fourth time this week!” Kingsley yelled. “I really should pull you both from the case, you know. I cannot successfully bring Brockway and Peterson down if the two Aurors I’m relying upon to gather evidence for me is a pair of blundering, blithering buffoons!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. Harry thought he looked tired. He knew the feeling. 

“A couple of gophers would have made a better job of this case than you two so far,” Kingsley said eventually. “It’s been weeks and we’ve got nowhere. I cannot have precious Auror time devoted to incompetent employees who keep needing to be rescued from animal shelters because they cannot keep themselves hidden enough to even escape the attention of eighty-six-year-old Muggles whilst supposedly hiding in their garden.” Harry gave Malfoy a smug expression, not missed by Kingsley. “And you, Potter- you’ve been trailing Brockway now for a fortnight! What have you learnt?” The smugness slipped from Harry’s face instantly. 

“I’ve got it all in my files, sir,” he said, somewhat sulkily. He really didn’t want to be taken off this case. Brockway and Peterson were two known petty criminals in the wizarding world, both having spent time in Azkaban in the past for thievery and fraud. The Ministry now suspected that they were involved in producing illegal hallucinogenic potions and supplying them to patrons in the new ‘trendier’ wizarding pubs that had opened in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. Harry and Malfoy had been assigned a suspect each, and their role was to find out as much about them as they could. Harry had been assigned to Brockway, whilst Malfoy had been given Peterson. OK, so Harry had not managed to find any concrete evidence as such, but he hadn’t been a complete imbecile. He’d found a list of plausible suspects that were potentially linked to the case, and even had the names of a few witches and wizards who had taken the potion and were prepared to talk, in return for immunity from prosecution. It was a damn sight more than Malfoy had achieved, anyway; Malfoy’s list of ‘achievements’ seem to consist of lying in the rose bush in the garden next to Peterson’s house and spying on him that way, before getting caught by a concerned old lady who was worried that the ‘poor little kitty’ was going to freeze to death in the harsh January weather. It was unfair that Harry’s reasonable progress was completely hindered by his useless twat of a partner. 

“You know, if this was Robards in charge of this investigation, he’d have removed you both as soon as Malfoy was caught the first time,” Kingsley said. He sighed deeply. “You’re both deeply lucky that Malfoy’s Animagus status is top secret and not even Robards is aware of it, meaning I’m in charge of this case.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Against my better judgement, I’m giving you one more chance. This is your _final_ chance, your final warning. If, by this time next week, I have no firm evidence, I’ll have no choice but to remove you both and assign Lancelot and Sydney to the case.”

“Thank you, Kingsley,” Harry said, whilst Malfoy nodded with a stiff, curt jerk of his head. Malfoy was well aware that the only reason he was granted permission to work alongside Harry was because he was an Animagus. It was supposed to be the Ministry’s secret weapon on this case, the ultimate disguise; both Malfoy and Harry were very aware, however, that so far Malfoy had screwed up far too many times. 

“I won’t say ‘you’re welcome’, because I don’t yet know if you are,” Kingsley replied, but Harry thought he could see a small smile amongst the weariness. “Just don’t let me down on this, OK? Harry, I want you to work with Malfoy for the next couple of days. I can’t trust him not to end up back in the RISPA, or whatever the Muggles call it. Now, why don’t you go and speak to some of your witnesses or something.” Harry recognised the dismissal for what it was and left the office, Malfoy trailing behind him.

*

By Monday, Harry was in a bad mood. Keen to prove to Kingsley that he wasn’t useless, he’d worked all weekend, even cancelling Sunday dinner with Ron and Hermione to do so. Malfoy had joined him on Sunday, and the pair had worked tirelessly until the middle of the night, before returning to their homes to wash and grab a few hours’ sleep before starting all over again. Harry was now tired, grumpy, and hungry. He was also cold. 

“Bloody Brockway,” he mumbled to himself as he emerged from ‘Tarantallegra’, the newest dance club in Diagon Alley, where it was believed Brockway’s associates had been dealing the previous night. The owner had called in the Aurors after he became suspicious when a patron had begun acting bizarrely, but by the time the team had arrived, the patron had gone. Harry had been to interview the owner, but he’d not managed to get much useful information. Wizards needed a form of surveillance, he thought to himself again, something not unlike Muggle CCTV cameras. It would solve a lot of problems. Harry vowed to speak to Kingsley about it again next time he was in the Auror Office. He popped into a café and grabbed himself a hot, juicy bacon sandwich with ketchup and a large black coffee in a polystyrene cup to take away, not having time for anything to eat before starting work that morning, then Apparated away to a park near to Peterson’s house in Winchester. He sat down on a nearby bench and began to attack his breakfast with gusto.

A faint pop in the distance some time later told him that somebody had just Apparated into the park. Harry looked in the direction of the noise and saw it was Malfoy, who was standing in a patch of thick trees. Harry checked his watch; Malfoy was late. Harry watched Malfoy as he looked surreptitiously around for early morning dog walkers and joggers before transforming into his Animagus form. A minute later, Harry was joined on the bench by the pure white cat. It sniffed hopefully at the bacon in Harry’s sandwich and make a small mewing noise whilst staring at him with wide, pleading grey eyes. Harry grinned, ignored him, and took a large bite, letting some bacon grease drip down his chin, which he licked off with a deliberately exaggerated groan of delight. The cat hissed in annoyance and extended its claws threateningly. Harry laughed and took another bite of his sandwich. 

“That was a waste of time this morning,” he told Malfoy slyly, between bites. “The owner didn’t notice anyone other than the girl herself acting oddly. I got no names, no descriptions. Nothing. I’ll go back tonight when the club’s open and talk to some of the regulars.” Malfoy let out a small ‘meow’ to show he was listening. “Give me two secs to finish this, then we’ll go to Peterson’s.” He ate the rest of his sandwich quickly (taking pity on Malfoy and giving him a piece of bacon, which earned him a loud purr as a reward) and downed his still-too-hot coffee. Then, with a reluctant Malfoy in his arms, he threw his Invisibility Cloak over them both, and Apparated the short distance to the street in which their suspect lived. 

As soon as they landed, Malfoy removed himself from Harry’s arms, ducked out of the Cloak, and stalked up to Peterson’s front door, then disappeared around the back into the garden. It was clearly the only magical dwelling in the area; unnoticed by the Muggles, Harry could clearly detect the shimmering of wards around the property, and sensed the presence of a Muggle-Repelling Charm. He slowly made his way around the property, casting subtle detection spells. Just then, Malfoy came sprinting around the corner. He gave an urgent meow in the general direction he knew Harry, currently invisible, was, and darted off back towards the garden again. Harry followed, and as soon as he turned the corner, he could see what had gotten Malfoy so animated. There, towards the far end of the garden, was a small greenhouse, protected by an all-weather atmospheric charm. Harry had visited the property with Malfoy on Friday afternoon, after rescuing him from the cattery and receiving the bollocking from Kingsley, and the greenhouse definitely had not been visible then. Harry concluded that it must have been warded from view before. And if it was visible now, it could only mean one thing. 

The greenhouse was currently in use. 

Harry, Cloak firmly in place still, made his way across the lawn, being careful not to make his footsteps heard on the harsh morning frost which lay on the grass. Malfoy was already inside the greenhouse; Peterson was not currently there but the door had been left open. Harry watched as Malfoy, nose far more sensitive in his Animagus form than it was as a human, began sniffing all the plants and mewing softly at some of them. Excitement bubbled in Harry’s stomach. Was this where Peterson and Brockway were growing the ingredients for their illegal potion? Was this finally the break Harry and Malfoy had been looking for? He began to take a close look at the plants that Malfoy had responded to. Asphodel, silverweed, Star Grass… all three were known ingredients in the illegal potion. _We’ve got them_ , Harry thought in triumph. 

“Well well well, it’s a little kitty cat. Ain’t you a bootiful thing, huh?” Harry froze in place at the voice. It belonged to Brockway- after weeks of trailing the man, Harry was certain he knew his voice- and Harry turned as silently as he could towards the man. He looked on in extreme caution, his hand on his wand in his pocket, as Brockway strode across to Malfoy and bent down. He extended a hand out towards his white fur, his yellowing, tobacco-stained fingers just inches from it. _Don’t lose your head, Malfoy,_ Harry willed. _They have no possible way of knowing who you are. Just keep calm. We’re finally getting some decent, concrete evidence against these two._ He held his breath. Malfoy hissed in warning and backed up. Brockway chuckled. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come ‘ere.” He made to grab Malfoy, and Malfoy struck. He sank his sharp feline teeth into Brockway’s hand, with such force that even Harry winced. Brockway howled in pain and drew his hand back with a jerk. Harry could see several puncture wounds that were dribbling blood onto the stone floor of the greenhouse. 

“Ow! You fucking furry bastard!” Brockway yelled, and drew his wand. With a bang, the greenhouse door slammed shut, trapping both Harry and Malfoy inside. Harry watched Malfoy run and hide underneath one of the shelves. He was still debating whether to draw his wand or not. He glanced out of the window and internally groaned; Peterson was coming out of the back door and making his way across the garden. He made his decision; he was going to Disarm Broackway, find Malfoy, and Disapparate out of there as quickly as possible. He took a step forward, preparing to cast. And stood on a twig. It gave an audible crack, and Brockway whipped round to the source of the sound. A nasty look of dawning crossed his face as Harry swore violently under his breath. 

“ _Homenum_ _Revelio,_ ” he said. A sneer crossed his face. “Interestin’. Very interestin’.” He turned to the shelf where Malfoy was hiding. “There’s two of ya in here. You ain’t just a pretty cat, are ya? And your mate, huh? Where’s he hidin’?”

Three things happened simultaneously then. Peterson came into the greenhouse, and left the door wide open. As he did so, Malfoy pelted for the door, and Harry pulled off his Cloak, wand in hand and trained on Brockway. He was gratified to see the colour drain from Brockway’s face when he saw exactly who stood before him. 

“Aurors! Drop your wand!” he commanded, and Brockway did so immediately. He may have been a petty criminal, and had even served previous time in Azkaban, but clearly not even he was stupid enough to duel Harry Potter, vanquisher of the Dark Lord. Harry Summoned the wand to him with a flick of his own, and pocketed it inside his robes, before binding the man in conjured ropes. He had no time to relish in his victory, however, because Brockway called to Peterson, “Stop that effing cat! It’s an Animagus!” 

Peterson dived back out into the garden, baring his wand, jets of amber light pouring from its tip. Harry ran out after him. He aimed his wand at Peterson, the Full Body-Bind on his lips, when Peterson cried out, “ _Felis_ _Aeternum!”_

There was another jet of amber light, and this time the spell hit its mark: Malfoy gave a meow of terror then froze, just as Harry bellowed, “ _Petrificus Totalus!”_

Harry’s spell hit its target squarely in the back, and he toppled over, falling face first onto the grass with a dull thud. With Peterson now immobile, and Brockway incarcerated in ropes, Harry ran to the bush, under which the terrified and trembling form of Malfoy was hiding. Harry tried to pick him up, deeply concerned for his health after the unknown spell had hit, but Malfoy back away, hissing and trying to scratch with his razor-sharp claws. 

“Malfoy, it’s me,” Harry said. He reached out again, and the cat meowed in fear, its white fur standing up on end. “Hey, Draco,” Harry said, softly this time. “It’s OK.”

Whether it was the gentle tone of his voice, the use of his first name, or what, Harry didn’t know, but it worked; Malfoy tentatively sniffed the back of the hand that Harry offered, and visibly calmed. Harry managed to coax him out from the bush and he scooped the cat up into his arms. He felt its tiny body relax in his arms, and quickly checked the cat over, searching for damage from Peterson’s mystery spell. There didn’t seem to be any physical injuries. 

“Change back,” Harry said, after his examination was complete. “This place is hidden from Muggle eyes. And we have two suspects we need to get into Auror custody urgently. Plus I think someone at St Mungo’s needs to look you over and find out what that spell you were hit with was.”

“Mew,” Malfoy replied. He began to purr and rubbed his cheek against Harry’s. 

“Yeah, I’m happy we’ve finally got them too,” Harry said, laughing. “But I need you back as a human to Side-Along Peterson to the Ministry. Come on, Malfoy.” This time Malfoy licked at a small patch of dry skin just below his bottom lip with a wet, rough tongue, before nudging him with a moist nose. He began to knead Harry’s chest with his paws, his claws prickling Harry’s skin as Malfoy flexed and retracted them repeatedly. A horrible dawning feeling of dread came over Harry. The spell… surely it didn’t-

“Malfoy, turn back,” Harry said, his voice growing urgent. “For fuck’s sake, stop messing around and become you again. Now.” The cat simply looked at him, grey eyes fixed onto his, head cocked slightly to the side. He yawned, then rested his soft feline head against Harry’s chest, and closed his eyes. Harry gulped. He knew now what the spell Peterson has cast did. It had somehow, inexplicably, not only trapped Malfoy in his Animagus form, but seemed to have given him all the behaviours and mannerisms of a feline. For all intents and purposes, Draco Malfoy was a bloody cat. And Harry didn’t have the faintest idea how to reverse the spell.

_Oh, bugger_. 


	2. Part Two

Harry stood rigid in the garden for several minutes, unsure what to do. Whichever way he looked at it, he was in an extremely unusual situation. He had two suspects incarcerated and ready for transfer to the Ministry, and one sound asleep pussy cat who was formerly his Auror partner and schoolboy enemy, curled up snugly in his arms. He was trying hard not to panic about that just yet. In the end, Harry decided he wouldn’t leave Malfoy alone in this state and, unwilling to Apparate with cat and criminal, he raised his wand, thought of the moment he’d qualified as an Auror four years previously, and cried, “ _Expecto Patronum!”._

The silvery, translucent stag burst from Harry’s wand. 

“Go to Kingsley Shacklebolt,” Harry told it. “Tell him I’m at Octavius Peterson’s address and that I have detained two suspects and need his help. Tell him to come alone.” The stag bowed its head as if in understanding and disappeared. Five minutes later the Minister for Magic Apparated into the garden. He saw Harry quickly and walked over to him. 

“Harry, what’s going on?” Kingsley said. Harry could almost see the man’s brain working; Kingsley glanced at the Petrified form of Peterson, then peered into the greenhouse and saw Brockway, secured in Harry’s ropes. His gaze fell to the cat who was still sound asleep. “And why in the name of Merlin is Draco Malfoy curled up asleep in your arms?”

“Ah, about that,” Harry said. “Kingsley, Peterson hit Malfoy with a spell. I don’t know what it was but it seems to have trapped him in his Animagus form. He can’t change back. But, almost worse than that, is he seems to actually _be_ a cat right now, rather than a wizard.” Kingsley’s eyes widened. He stared at Malfoy, then closed his eyes. The situation seemed to be causing him mental anguish. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Harry suspected that the Minister was desperately trying not to swear. Eventually he looked up, and sighed deeply. 

“Right,” he said. “I’ll get these two into Auror custody, then we’ll discuss what to do with that pillock there, OK?” He bound Peterson in his own set of ropes, then released him from the Body-Bind Curse. He disappeared into the greenhouse, emerged with a defeated-looking Brockway, grabbed them both with his hands, and Disapparated. Twenty minutes later, he returned. 

“They’re in the cells,” Kingsley said. “I’ll need you there this afternoon though, Harry. You need to fill out an incident report. Although I’ll interview them for you, and demand Peterson tells us the counter-spell for Malfoy.” He looked around at the greenhouse. “Potions ingredients in there, I take it?” Harry nodded. Kingsley smiled. It wasn’t a totally happy smile, but it was kind and, Harry thought, held a certain pride. 

“You did very well with both of those berks, Harry,” Kingsley said in the end. “I’m just sorry that you’ve been lumbered with Malfoy in the process.” 

That got Harry’s attention. “I’m sorry, sir, but what exactly do you mean by ‘lumbered’?” he asked. Kingsley had the grace to blush. 

“Well, Harry, it’s not as if Malfoy’s Animagus status is common knowledge now, is it?” he said. Harry noticed that the Minister wasn’t quite meeting his eye. A feeling of weary resignation crept over him, as he cottoned on quickly to what he was being asked to do. “Not even his own parents know, and given the situation, now is hardly the most prudent of times to explain it to them- I feel that the knowledge will distress them somewhat. And Malfoy can hardly look after himself now, can he? He will end up in that rescue place legitimately this time if he’s left alone. No, Harry, I think what is best is if, ah, well, what I mean to say is-”

“Sir, are you asking me to take Malfoy in?” Harry interrupted. Kingsley’s blush deepened and he nodded. Harry sighed. He’d known this was coming from the moment the bloody spell had hit Malfoy, but that didn’t make it any more pleasant. However, he recognised the ‘request’ from Kingsley as what it was- an indirect order. He nodded slowly in defeat. 

“Fine,” he said, “I’ll take care of him. But I expect the Ministry to pay for everything he needs. I won’t be out of pocket for this. And you’ll need to speak with Peterson about the spell, and how it can be reversed, or whatever.”

A wave of relief crossed Kingsley’s face. 

“That’s reasonable,” he said, “thank you, Harry. Now, I think you’ve earned a couple of hours off, don’t you? Why don’t you take Malfoy back to Grimmauld Place? I’ll go and see what I can find out From Peterson about the spell, and I’ll join you there shortly.”

Harry made his goodbyes then, clutching the still sleeping Malfoy close to his chest, he turned on the spot and Disapparated. 

He landed in the small room on the second floor of Grimmauld Place that he used for Apparition. He realised that Malfoy had woken up. The cat, clearly frightened by the Apparition, scrambled to get free from Harry’s arms; in the process his claws nicked Harry’s Auror robes, tearing the sleeve on the right side and drawing blood from Harry’s arm when he tried to tighten his grip on the wretched animal. 

“Ow!” Harry yelled, and instinctively loosened his grip. Malfoy instantly sprang from Harry’s arms, darted across the room, and hid under the small dresser that was kept in the corner. Harry took out his wand, healed the gash on his arm, and glared at the cat. 

“You can bloody well stop doing that,” he said sternly. “I’m only trying to help you, you brainless prat. We’ve managed to work together now for a year without physically injuring each other, and I’m not about to start now, not when you’re a sodding cat.” Draco meowed pathetically. Harry sighed. It had been an extremely long day, and it was still only eleven in the morning. 

Harry was in the living room, watching crap daytime TV, when Kingsley arrived by Floo just after one. He dusted the soot from his robes and sat down. Harry reached for the television remote and switched off the set. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” Kingsley asked. 

“Hiding,” Harry said. “He’s been under the dresser in that old study since we arrived. I don’t think he likes Apparition very much.”

“Well, there’s some good news at least,” said Kingsley. “I’ve spoken to Peterson and have identified the spell and, despite its wording, it has not made Malfoy’s situation permanent, thank Merlin. The spell has a finite period of time in which it is active, after which time it simply ends. One calendar month from today, he will return to his human state. Until that time, well, he will continue to have all the instincts and behaviours of a cat.”

“I’ll pencil it onto my calendar,” Harry said drily. “Fifteenth of February 2005, Draco Malfoy becomes a twat again.”

Kingsley gave a small chuckle. 

“They’re expecting you in the Auror Office,” he said. “You need to fill out a report. Don’t worry about identifying Malfoy as an Animagus; I’ve had to tell Robards anyway. I suggest you then pick up some supplies for the month. On the Ministry, of course. I’ll stay here with Malfoy.”

Harry stood, realised too late he had forgotten to repair the tear in his robes when Kingsley’s eyebrows rose, and sheepishly cast _Reparo_ over the sleeve before grabbing a handful of Floo powder from a jade green box that Ginny had given him once the renovations to Grimmauld Place had been completed eighteen months earlier, and tossed it into the fireplace. He stepped into the flames, called out his destination, and disappeared. 

Three hours later, he emerged from the Ministry feeling grumpy and fed up, but at least that he had accomplished something. He had given a detailed report as to the morning’s events, signed his name in thirty-three different spaces on seven separate sheets of parchment, and was just looking forward to returning home and grabbing a very late lunch/early dinner when he remembered he still had to buy stuff for Malfoy. With a sigh he turned on the spot, arriving in the delivery bay of a large Muggle retail park on the outskirts of Birmingham he had investigated once, where he knew there was a huge pet shop. He made his way to the front of the shops, walked past two DIY stores and a large sofa shop that seemed to have a perpetual sale on, and reached the entrance to Pets at Home. He dug in his trouser pocket, found a solitary pound coin, and pushed it into the slot of the first shopping trolley in the stack. The trolley sprung free, and Harry wheeled it into the shop, only just managing to resist the urge to draw his wand and correct the wonky front wheel that made steering the bloody thing very difficult. 

Having never owned any animal other than Hedwig before, Harry didn’t know where to begin, so started simply wondering up and down every aisle, picking stuff off the shelves as he deemed necessary. He filled the trolley with the essentials: a large multipack of Whiskas, a bag of dried kibbles, water bowl, food bowl, cat bed. And, because the Ministry was paying, not him, Harry also put in a huge scratching post, some toys, and- because he could, and he knew it would piss Malfoy off if he knew- a collar in red and gold stripes, that reminded him of his Gryffindor scarf. 

Then he entered an aisle that made his mouth turn dry. The litter tray aisle. Harry pulled what he was quite sure was a repulsed face. Why hadn’t this occurred to him when he agreed to take the bloody cat in? He was going to have to clean up the cat’s shit. _No,_ his brain dutifully corrected, _you’re going to have to clean up Draco Malfoy’s shit_. Which was a whole other load of disgusting that Harry really didn’t want to think about. He looked at the prices of cat litter, then, deciding that he didn’t care because he wasn’t paying for it, he added in the largest, heaviest sack of cat litter the shop did, deciding there and then he would simply Vanish the entire contents of the litter tray every day, rather than the ‘remove solid waste daily, and completely empty the tray at least once a week’ that the pack instructed. He was not, _not_ , picking up his schoolboy nemesis’ faeces. He just wasn’t. For good measure he threw a huge tub of cat litter freshener into the trolley, then headed to the checkout.

He balked slightly when the cashier gave him the total, but shot her a smile and reached for his wallet. He took out a few notes, handed them over, and pocketed his paltry change from a hundred pounds. He then wheeled the trolley outside, and wondered how in the name of Merlin’s mother’s saggy tits he was going to get the stuff home. He couldn’t just Apparate from the car park with about sixty Muggles all within close proximity. The trolley had some sort of anti-theft device in it, meaning Harry couldn’t remove it from the car park and return to the loading bay to Disapparate, and the contents were far too heavy to lift by hand. Swearing under his breath, he drew his wand slightly and cast a Notice Me Not spell before deciding that Pets at Home would have to do without this particular trolley, and he Apparated away, taking the trolley and its contents with him. 

It wasn’t one of his better ideas. The old study he arrived in was very small, and Harry managed to wedge himself between the trolley, wall, and the dresser that Draco had hidden under earlier. The fact that there was no frightened meow emitting from underneath it meant that he’d finally moved. Extremely embarrassed by the fact that he had got himself stuck in his own bloody study, Harry turned in the small amount of space he had and Apparated three feet across the room, so he was no longer wedged in. Then he realised he was on the second floor and had to lug the heavy shopping down two flights of stairs. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he said aloud, before once again drawing his wand and Levitating the contents behind him as he made his way downstairs. It was all extremely heavy and required Harry’s full concentration to hold the spell. He was panting slightly from exertion by the time he dumped the contents in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. 

He found Kingsley in the living room, standing stiffly and looking extremely agitated. 

“Malfoy’s missing,” he said in response to Harry’s questioning look. “I went up to check on him about half an hour after you left, and he wasn’t under the dresser anymore. I’ve looked all over the house, except for your bedroom, but the door is closed so he can’t be in there anyway. I just have no idea where he is.”

“Oh wonderful,” Harry said. “He’s been a cat less than six hours and we’ve already lost the git.”

They spent the next hour looking for Malfoy. Harry searched his bedroom anyway, to no avail, whilst Kingsley pulled out every single drawer to every piece of furniture Harry owned. There was no sign. Harry didn’t understand it; all the windows in the house were closed, and they had checked anywhere he could have squashed into. 

“You don’t think that, somehow, he returned to his human form and went home, do you?” Harry asked hopefully. Kingsley shook his head. 

“No, he’s definitely going to be a cat for a month,” he said. “More to the pity.” 

They made their way into the kitchen to make tea. Or, more accurately, for Harry to make tea, whilst Kingsley sat at the kitchen table, looking older than his years. Harry made the tea and slid a mug towards him. Kingsley accepted it gratefully. 

“When I became Minister, I thought I’d be more involved in agendas such as Wizengamot reform, not looking for idiots stuck in their Animagus form,” he said, taking a large gulp of tea. “If we’ve lost him… this is going to be a tad embarrassing, not to mention incur a lot of paperwork for us both.”

Harry swallowed his own mouthful of tea and opened his mouth to reply, but he never got the chance. A loud scratching noise from the top of the kitchen cupboards drew both his and Kingsley’s attention, and the next second what appeared to be a furry white cannonball shot from it and landed squarely on Kingsley’s shoulders, claws dug firmly into the flesh in a desperate scramble to hold on. Grunting in pain, Kingsley swiped at the mass of fur, sending it catapulting to the floor, where it charged out of the kitchen, its claws scratching against the wooden floor Harry had fitted two years ago. Both men stared at the doorway in shock. 

“I think we found Draco,” Harry said eventually. Kingsley could only nod numbly in agreement. 

*

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of Dittany later, Kingsley’s shoulders were repaired, Draco had been found (again) and shut in the dining room, and Harry was wondering how it was still the same day from when he was sat on the park bench eating a bacon sandwich. It seemed like a lifetime ago. His stomach gave a large growl then, as if to remind him exactly of the fact it had been hours since he last ate, and his mouth watered in anticipation of the fat, juicy rump steak he’d treated himself to from the butcher’s yesterday that was to be tonight’s dinner. Kingsley bid Harry a slightly irritated farewell, as if it was his fault that the damn cat had ripped his skin to shreds, and disappeared through the fireplace, muttering about having to stay late all evening catching up on his work after spending the day ‘chasing after a bloody feral animal’, and Harry went to the dining room to let Draco out. He was rewarded with a huge purr as the cat entwined himself in Harry’s legs as he walked, nearly tripping him several times. 

“You hungry, Draco?” he asked. 

“Meow,” said Draco. 

Harry led Draco, still weaving dangerously between his legs, into the kitchen, and pulled his steak out of the refrigerator to come up to room temperature before cooking. While he waited, he set up the litter tray and placed it at the far end of the kitchen, away from all the food. Draco immediately jumped onto it and began to dig in the litter, before squatting down in the hole for a few seconds. He then covered the mess with clean litter and jumped back out. Harry took a deep breath, pointed his wand at the tray, and said, “ _Scougify_.” He then topped the tray up with more litter, washed his hands, and filled one of the new dishes with water. Then he put a small handful of kibbles into a bowl, and opened the box of Whiskas. 

“Do you want poultry, duck, rabbit or lamb?” he asked Draco. 

“Purr,” said Draco. Harry selected one of the pouches at random- duck, as it turned out- and squeezed the vile-looking chunks of meat and jelly into the bowl with the kibbles. He Summoned a place mat out of one of his kitchen drawers, laid it on the floor, and placed both the food and water bowls on top. 

“Dinner!” he said. Draco swaggered over to it, had a sniff, and then looked at Harry as if to say, ‘You really think I’m going to eat that shit?’

Harry ignored him, thinking that if Draco got hungry enough, he would eat. He busied himself by pouring olive oil into a cast iron frying pan and turning on the burner. He waited until the oil began to sizzle and crack, then placed his steak into the pan, salivating at the delicious smell of pan-cooked steak. 

Apparently his new furry friend appreciated the aroma too. The bowl of Whiskas and kibbles was still untouched. 

“OK, you,” Harry said, deciding that if relenting on the food on Draco’s first night as a cat would make it easier for him then it was worth doing, “how about some fish? Cats are supposed to like fish, right?”

He flipped his steak over in the pan and grabbed a bag of salad from the fridge. Then he opened his cupboard and took out a tin of tuna in spring water. With a flick of his wand he removed the lid from the can, and held it out for Draco to sniff. Draco pressed his nose to the can, glared at Harry, then turned round, giving Harry an unwanted yet crystal-clear view of the cat’s genitalia. 

“It’s this or nothing,” Harry told Draco firmly. “Because that steak is _mine_.”

He turned off the burner and slid the steak onto a plate. He threw a handful of the salad onto the side and placed the plate on the table. Then he turned to the breadbin and cut himself two thick slices of crusty bread. He turned back to his steak, and swore loudly. It wasn’t there. Harry’s eyes darted to the floor quickly, where Draco was attacking Harry’s steak with gusto, evidently having nicked it from the plate while he was facing away from him, cutting the bread.

“Draco! You fucking little thief!” Harry yelled, so loudly that the cat jumped in alarm and his ears went back. “I turn my back for thirty seconds and you steal my steak!”

“Meow,” Draco cried pitifully. His grey eyes widened, and Harry felt his anger relenting. _Bloody manipulative cat…_

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. But don’t you ever do that again. It’s Whiskas or starve, you hear me? And when you’re human again you’re replacing that steak.”

“Purr,” said Draco, and tore another strip of steak off with his teeth. Harry sighed and made himself a tuna sandwich with the opened tin, his cut slices of bread, and the salad leaves. It wasn’t the same as a perfectly cooked, juicy steak, he lamented, as he bit into it. February the fifteenth couldn’t come quickly enough. 

*

After his dinner of not steak, Harry cleaned up the kitchen quickly, then decided to relax with some television. It was still early evening and nothing much was on except mind-numbing soap operas, most of which seemed to consist entirely of characters shouting at each other and accusing their siblings of sleeping with their spouses. He began to channel hop, eventually settling on a nature documentary. He laid on the sofa, resting his head on a plump cushion, and began to watch.

“Meow!”

Draco ran into the living room and jumped onto Harry. Harry swore at the cat and pushed him off, tired from his exhausting day, but apparently Draco was not to be deterred. He jumped back up again and laid himself flat against Harry’s chest, purring, obscuring Harry’s view of the television screen. Harry was getting annoyed now; aside from feeling tired and just wanting to unwind for an hour or so before grabbing an early night, Harry really didn’t want to spend his leisure time petting Draco Malfoy, cat or not. First he’d had to clean up his crap. Then he’d had to feed him his steak. He drew the line at tickling a former Death Eater- albeit a coerced and completely reformed one- under the chin. 

“I’m not doing it,” Harry said sternly, as Draco kneaded Harry’s casual jumper with his paws and tilted his chin up in a plea for attention. He turned those huge begging quicksilver eyes on Harry, and once again Harry felt his resolve crack; Draco really did make a beautiful cat. “Malfoy, I’m not… oh, for God’s sake.” Harry reached down with one hand and began to scratch. Draco purred loudly in victory, curled into a ball, and fell asleep. Harry vaguely wondered if Human Draco was this demanding with the people he was closest with. Had the child Draco demanded cuddles and tickles from his parents? Somehow, Harry couldn’t see Lucius as the type to play tickling games with his son. What about lovers, Harry thought. Did Draco demand to be touched, how hard, how fast, all the time digging his nails into his lover’s back as he arched into their caress…

He bolted upright from the chair, causing Draco to hiss and jump from his lap. Where the bloody hell had that thought come from? He checked his watch. It was only just eight, but he’d got very little sleep the night before, plus he had worked all weekend. He picked up the TV remote and switched off the set, took the cat basket out of its wrappings and set it near enough to the fire that Draco would be warm all night, and extinguished the candles with a wave of his wand. 

“You sleep here,” Harry told Draco firmly. He picked the cat up and placed him into the bed. “I’ll see you in the morning. Goodnight, Malfoy. Oh, and tomorrow, I’m collaring you.”

He had just got into his bed and was seriously contemplating a nice long wank when he heard scratching on his bedroom door, followed by a pitiful, heartbroken feline cry. Swearing loudly and willing away the bulge that had formed in his boxers, Harry flung himself back out of bed, shivering as the cold January air touched his skin, and opened the door.

“What?” he yelled. “Draco, go back downstairs. Now.” He closed the door and climbed back into his warm bed. Several minutes of silence passed, and Harry was just beginning to think his unwelcome house guest had got the message, when the scratching started up again. 

Desperate now to just _sleep_ , Harry opened the door once more and, without a word, let the cat in. Draco snaked around Harry’s ankles, purring, then jumped up onto the bed. He immediately settled himself in the spot Harry had just vacated, and therefore the warmest, comfiest spot, and immediately fell asleep. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The latter seemed more likely, though. 

“Bastard,” he said quietly, then climbed into the cold side of the bed, pulled the duvet over himself, and finally fell into oblivion. 


	3. Part Three

**Part Three**

Harry was awoken far too early the next morning by the sound of purring and the sensation of something hairy rubbing against his cheek. He started at the unexpected feeling, before groggily remembering the day’s previous events. _Oh, right. Draco Malfoy is my pet cat for a month. And he slept in my bed last night, which isn’t weird at all._ The room was still pitch black; Harry scrambled for his glasses on the table next to his bed, shoved them onto his nose and glanced at the luminescent alarm clock next to his wand. It was seventeen minutes past six. Harry groaned, roughly shoved an undeterred Draco away from him, and rolled over in bed, desperate for another hour’s sleep before he had to get up for work. 

He should have known that would be impossible. Draco continued to nip, paw, and rub against Harry until he yelled, “Fine!” and tossed off the duvet, got out of bed, and threw on his dressing gown, before heading down the stairs to make the breakfast that Draco so clearly wanted. Draco followed instantly, purring loudly, and almost tripping Harry over at the top of the stairs. 

“I _will_ kick you if you do that again,” Harry told the cat firmly. “That’s if you’ve not sent me flying down the stairs and broken my leg first.” They entered the kitchen. Harry sleepily filled the kettle and placed it onto the stove, changed Draco’s drinking water, and filled his food bowl with kibbles. Then, stomach dry heaving slightly at the sight, he flicked his wand at the litter tray at the end of the kitchen and said, “ _Evanesco_.” He breathed a sigh of relief as the litter and its contents Vanished, then he cast another Cleaning Charm to give it a good clean, and added more litter. _Only thirty more mornings to go,_ he thought to himself grumpily, as the kettle on the stove whistled. Harry threw some instant coffee granules into a mug and poured on the boiling water. He sat down at the table, and looked over at his feline house guest. And swore loudly. 

Draco had not touched his kibbles. Indeed, Harry thought, the bloody cat actually had the audacity to glare at him. 

“Kibbles not good enough for the great Draco Malfoy, huh? Fine. Starve,” he yelled, his temper rising, then stormed back upstairs to the bathroom. The day had not started well, he thought, as he brushed his teeth and switched the shower on. The hot water had the desired effect, however, as it cascaded over his naked body, soothing his tense muscles and fully waking him up. He allowed himself the luxury of a full twenty minutes under the spray before he reluctantly rinsed the soap suds from his body and hair and shut off the water. He dried himself roughly with a towel and dressed quickly in his Auror robes. He made his way back to the kitchen, where Draco still sat, his tail swishing in great annoyance, but he had a sad expression on his feline face. The bowl of kibbles was still untouched. Harry felt himself give in. He guessed years of being underfed at the Dursleys had made him a pushover when it came to food, and he couldn’t bear to see the cat go hungry, even if he did have a bowl of perfectly edible, if admittedly horrible, cat food at his feet.

“OK,” he said. “But this is the last time, alright? You’ll bloody well eat Whiskas tonight or you won’t eat.” He didn’t believe the words himself as he began to scramble a couple of eggs in a pan with some double cream, and decided that the Ministry could sodding well pay for his pompous guest’s food bill while he was here too. He slid the mixture onto a clean saucer and placed in front of the cat, who attacked the eggs greedily, as if he had not eaten for days, his white neck stretched as he ate from the plate. Harry smirked. 

“ _Accio_ collar,” he said, and the red and gold strip of glittering fabric that he had purchased the day before slammed into his hand. Harry opened it and adjusted the strap. While Draco was still eating, Harry slipped it around his neck.

“Perfect. Just like a proper little Gryffindor,” he said with a smile. Draco continued to devour his food, apparently unaware of his new accessory. Harry shot a Warming Charm at the cold cup of coffee on the kitchen table, gulped it in four mouthfuls, and unpeeled a banana, which he ate while he read his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that had been delivered when he was in the shower. Peterson and Brockway’s arrest had made the news. Kingsley had somehow managed to keep Draco’s name and situation out of the paper, but Harry had been credited as the Auror responsible for the arrest. 

“I’m in the paper over our case,” he said to Draco when he’d swallowed his mouthful of banana. He looked up. Draco had finally finished eating, and was now busying himself with grooming. Harry watching with a mixture of amusement at interest. Draco methodically washed every inch of his sleek snowy body he could reach with his pink, sandpaper-rough tongue: his paws, tail, his back, his stomach, and between his legs…

“Oh,” said Harry in embarrassed surprise. “You can, um, lick your own dick then.” He tried not to stare for a few seconds, then added, “Lucky bastard.” He made his way into the living room then, tossed a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, and went to work.

*

This pattern continued for the next four days. Harry had finally abandoned his half-arsed attempt to feed Draco the cat food on the third day, and had delivered the huge bundle of unopened Whiskas and kibbles to the RSPCA where Draco had been ‘rescued’ to so many times; a thank you, he said, for looking after his cat, and would the food come in handy to them? The staff at the Ark thanked him for his generosity, and Harry felt glad that the food wouldn’t go to waste, at least. 

Draco was, Harry thought, possibly the best fed cat in London. He had had scrambled eggs for breakfast every morning and had dined on poached fillet of cod, grilled chicken breasts, and pan-seared pork tenderloins in the evenings, in addition to the rump steak he had eaten on Monday. He was also having lamb cutlets for dinner that evening. Harry had explained the situation to Kingsley, using more than a little emotional blackmail as he did so, and Kingsley had reluctantly agreed to fund Draco’s extravagant food bill for the month. And if Harry was taking advantage of it too, well, he considered it only a fraction of what he was owed for actually looking after the cat in the first place. He had eaten better in the past week than he had for ages; usually it was dried noodles or a takeaway in the evening for him. 

He arrived home and stepped out of his fireplace at exactly five on Friday evening, feeling pissed off and sore. Robards, in a spiteful fit of revenge for Harry’s failure to inform him that one of his Aurors was an Animagus, had assigned Harry the task of training the new recruits in jinxes, and by ‘training’, Robards meant ‘volunteering to be hit by them’. Harry was tired, hungry, and just wanted a long, hot soak in the bath and his bed. He was extremely glad it was Friday and he wasn’t working the weekend shift this week. 

“Lo, Draco,” he said softly to the bundle that was curled up sleepily on the sofa by the fire, evidently having been awoken by Harry’s arrival. 

“Meow,” Draco said in reply. He yawned, stretched out his paws and arched his back, before curling back up into a ball and falling back to sleep. Harry chuckled. 

“You just stay there and sleep. I expect you’ve had an exhausting day,” he said drily. He peeled off his sweaty Auror robes and headed to his bedroom, tossing the robes into the laundry basket on his way. 

He had just finished running his bath, with a special bubble bath containing eucalyptus, lavender, and essence of Dittany (and which he’d rather die than admit to Ron he used), when Draco came tearing into the bathroom. Harry quickly fastened the towel around his bare midriff. 

“Look,” he said, “just because I have to look at you washing your own bits doesn’t mean you get to see mine, alright? Go back downstairs or something, while I have a bath. I’ll cook dinner later.”

“Meow!” Draco said. He sounded slightly frantic, and looked agitated. Harry’s instinct prickled. 

“OK,” he sighed. “Give me a second.” He unwillingly threw his dressing gown back on, stared wistfully at the hot, bubbly water, and headed back downstairs. 

He saw straight away what had upset Draco. Hermione’s head was in his fireplace. 

“Harry!” she said, before Harry had a chance to get a word in edgeways, “why aren’t you ready? We are supposed to meet in ten minutes. And did I just see a white cat in your living room?”

Harry stared blankly at her. Meet? His confusion clearly showed, however, as Hermione sighed deeply. 

“Oh, Harry, you forgot, didn’t you?” she said. “I told Ronald that Robards has been working you too hard this week, what with Malfoy confined to his Manor with flu, and that perhaps we should postpone this evening, but he insisted that a night out would be good for you.” She looked miserable. “I’ll tell Ron you can’t make it then, shall I?”

Harry ran through his internal Filofax that had been his week. _Wednesday, meeting with Robards. Thursday, send official yet untruthful Ministry owl to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, informing them that their son is away on secret Auror work and currently un-contactable. Friday… bugger. Friday, dinner with Ron and Hermione in Diagon Alley._ Harry groaned inwardly. He had completely forgotten. It was on the tip of his tongue to agree to reschedule, but the look on his friend’s face, combined with the fact that he’d had a very long, strange week, and dinner with two of his favourite people seemed like a really lovely idea, meant he fought the refusal back. 

“No, Hermione, it’s fine,” he said, a genuine smile on his face. “I really want to see you both. But I am really tired. Would you mind coming here instead? We can get a Chinese or something.”

“Of course not,” Hermione beamed. “Oh, and you don’t mind if I bring a friend from work, do you?” Harry opened his mouth to say, actually, he did mind, but Hermione shot him that manipulating puppy-dog expression again and he found himself giving in and agreeing. Merlin, he was even too tired to stand his ground.

“Give me an hour. Floo through at half seven,” Harry replied. Hermione nodded, and her head disappeared from his fireplace. Harry swore loudly, stomped upstairs and emptied his bath, and jumped in the shower quickly instead. Five minutes later, and hair dripping droplets of water all over his wooden floor, Harry began manically applying Cleaning Charms to his grubby house. He was normally fairly house proud, but he just hadn’t had the time or inclination for housework this week. At twenty-eight minutes past seven, he stood in his living room, dressed in a clean pair of jeans and shirt, his hair was combed and as tidy as it ever was, and his house was free from a week’s worth of _Daily Prophet_ newspapers, dust and dirt. He had even changed the litter again and Scourgified the tray, despite doing so that morning. He noticed with a wince that he was already more than halfway through the huge bag. 

At exactly half past seven, the flames in his fireplace roared and Ron, followed swiftly by Hermione and a woman he didn’t know, entered his house. The woman was elaborately dressed in a black cocktail dress which had a low neckline- offering more than a hint of cleavage- black stiletto shoes, and her face was heavily made up. Around her neck she wore a string of pearls, and had obviously gone to a lot of effort with her appearance, which Harry thought was completely over the top, given the fact that they were just getting a takeaway in his house. Harry could smell her perfume- spicy and perhaps citrusy- from across the room. It was overpowering, overly feminine, and Harry found it very unpleasant. With sickening comprehension, he realised that his friends were trying to set him up with the woman. He glared at Ron, who had the grace to look abashed. Hermione gave him a quick hug he didn’t return then beckoned him over to meet Hermione’s companion.

“Harry, this is Jaqueline Samuels, who works in DMLE with me. Jackie, this is Harry Potter.” 

The woman giggled and blushed as she offered her hand to Harry, who politely shook it rather than kiss it, as she had clearly wanted him to do.

“I know who you are of course, Harry,” she gushed, and giggled again and fluttered her eyelashes as him. Harry stared at her and blinked, wondering why the fuck Hermione had brought a bloody _fangirl_ into his home. She held his hand for a few seconds longer than etiquette demanded, and Harry had to forcibly pull it out of her grip.

“Um, right. Drinks!” Ron announced, obviously sensing danger. He disappeared into Harry’s kitchen and reappeared with a bottle of wine and glasses for the ladies, and a six-pack of Kronenbourg for him and Harry. 

“Mate,” he said. “Why is there a cat’s litter tray in your kitchen?”

Draco’s timing was impeccable, Harry had to give him that. Ron’s words were barely out of his mouth when he slinked into the room, clearly looking for a sofa to curl up on. He caught sight of the stranger and swished his tail in warning. Jacqueline squealed as she spotted Draco, causing Harry to shiver as the shrillness of her voice permeated his brain, and bent down and scooped the white cat into her arms. 

“Oh, you’re just so precious,” she cooed, as she brought Draco up to her face and clucked at him. “I could just eat you, I could, oh yes, you’re so- OW!” She dropped Draco as, clearly irritated by the woman’s fussing, he swiped at her face with a paw, leaving a noticeable angry red line down her left cheek. Harry was torn between mortification and great amusement.

“Um, guess that answers your question,” Harry said to Ron, and he could have sworn that Ron’s lips twitched, but straightened instantly from a stern look from his fiancée. “I have a cat.”

Jacqueline glared at Draco. Draco glared back. 

“So, what’s its name, then?” Hermione said, reaching down to scratch Draco’s ears. Draco hissed in warning, which couldn’t have said, ‘Stay the fuck away from me’ any clearer if he’d said the words aloud. Fortunately for Harry, however, Hermione appeared to be a lot cleverer than her friend and instantly heeded the warning. She calmly withdrew her hand and stood back up. “Unfriendly little creature, isn’t it?”

“He can probably smell Crookshanks on you,” Harry lied. “He’s perfectly nice to me. And, um, he hasn’t got a name yet. He’s new.” By now Harry was desperately wishing he had a Time-Turner and could go backwards an hour and put Hermione off coming over after all. He really hadn’t thought the evening through properly at all. One tiny slip-up and Hermione would have all this figured out in a heartbeat, Harry just knew it.

“You should call him Godric,” Ron said, fingering the material around Draco’s neck. “He already has a Gryffindor collar on. Plus he’s a cat, and lions are cats too.”

Draco meowed in protest and his hair stood up on end. Harry laughed, thinking that would be exactly what he would call Draco every time the blasted animal was around his friends. He knew it would seriously piss Draco off once he was back to his human form, and that was all the more reason to do it, in Harry’s opinion. Especially when Jacqueline scoffed at the idea.

“You know what, Ron? I think I will. Come along, _Godric_ , time for dinner.”

He quickly seared the lamb cutlets, feeling deeply embarrassed that his friends and Jacqueline could probably hear him cooking for a cat, and served them swiftly before returning to the living room. Thankfully, no one commented on the smell of grilled lamb coming from his kitchen, although Ron did raise an eyebrow. Harry distracted him quickly by producing the Chinese menu, and the foursome began to select dishes. Once everyone had made their selections, he disappeared to the Chinese a short walk away, and returned half an hour later with the food. Ron had collected plates and cutlery while he was gone, and he and Hermione dished the food out between the four of them. Harry put an album on his stereo, and they began to eat. He groaned inwardly when Jacqueline sat closely to him on the two-seater sofa, and shuffled closer to the armrest on his side. He noticed with utter disdain that she’d hitched up the hem of her dress to show more thigh than was usually considered decent. Harry rolled his eyes. He was so going to have words with his best friends about this. 

“What is this racket?” Jacqueline asked through a mouthful of chow mein, as the music began to play. 

“Muse,” Harry replied. “They’re a Muggle band. I think they’re good.”

“Celestina Warbeck is better. You can’t beat _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ ,” Jacqueline replied. Harry was beginning to like this woman less and less. He forced a smile at her and flicked his wand at the stereo, turning the volume up on _Plug in Baby_. Why in the name of Merlin’s gonads had Hermione thought for a second he’d even want this woman in his home, let alone his bed? They clearly had nothing in common. He picked up his second bottle of beer, from which he’d barely taken a sip, and downed the contents. If he had to endure this woman’s company for the next two or three hours, he bloody well needed alcohol in his system. 

Harry managed to endure the next half an hour in relative peace, until Draco re-entered the room and, spotting Harry, jumped on his lap and began to purr. Harry began to absently scratch him behind the ears and under the chin, while Draco kneaded him with his paws. 

“He is a pretty cat,” Hermione said. Harry wondered what Hermione would say if she knew she’d just referred to Draco Malfoy as ‘pretty’. 

Jacqueline had finished eating now, and her hand, scarlet nails and all, slunk across the sofa and tried to rest on Harry’s knee. Draco swatted the hand away with his paw. He clearly liked the woman about as much as Harry did. Harry chuckled, but Jacqueline looked furious. She pushed Draco away roughly, and tried once more to grope Harry’s leg. This time Draco nipped her hand, and she pulled it away sharply.

“Harry,” she said sternly, “that is the third time your animal has gone for me. Can’t you lock it in the cupboard under the stairs or something while you have company?” Harry laughed incredulously, but inside his fragile temper had just about snapped. Boy, had that woman just said exactly the wrong thing. The harsh intake of breath from across the room told him that both Ron and Hermione were well aware of this fact too.

“You know,” he said icily, really not in the mood to play the perfect host any longer, “cats are an excellent judge of character. If they don’t like someone, there’s usually a very good reason for it.” 

Jacqueline looked completely shocked. 

“Locking up is the best thing for a feral beast like that,” she insisted. “It’s just a nuisance.”

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but knew if he said something now, he’d end up saying something he really regretted. Jacqueline’s words had hit a little too close to home. 

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Hermione said quickly, standing from her own chair and hastily placing her glass of wine and empty plate on the coffee table. “Harry, you’ve had a long week, and I know you’re tired, and-”

“Hermione, do not put this one on me,” Harry said. “You heard what she said. I’m grateful for the effort you’ve gone to here, sort of, but I’m perfectly capable of finding myself a date if I want one, thank you very much. And I would appreciate it if you would not invite any more strange women into my home, OK? Ms Samuels is leaving now.” He picked up her handbag and passed it to her quickly. “Sorry, but I just don’t think we’re compatible,” he added, voice laden with sarcasm.

“I don’t get it,” Jacqueline whined to Hermione. “All I asked him to do was lock his cat away.”

Ron shot Harry a look of pure embarrassment. 

“I think we should probably go too, ‘Mione,” he said. “Sorry, mate.”

Jacqueline took a pinch of Floo powder and threw it into the fireplace.

“You were not I dreamt you’d be, Harry Potter,” she said sadly. Harry sneered at her.

“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” he replied. “You should never meet your heroes. You’ll only be disappointed.” She disappeared. Harry turned on his friends. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione said. “At work she’s always seemed so nice. She mentioned she wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment, and did I know any single men I could perhaps fix her up with. She hadn’t even ever mentioned you, not to me anyway. I wasn’t trying to get her a date with Famous Harry Potter, I promise. I just thought you might have got on and had a good time together.” Harry could see she was close to tears, and felt his anger ebb. 

“It’s OK,” he said. “Those comments about the cupboard wouldn’t have been half as bad if I hadn’t have had to live in one at the Dursleys for ten years. I guess she wasn’t to know anything about that. I still don’t think I would like her though, even if she hadn’t have said what she did.” He gave Hermione a hug and she gave him a watery smile, and threw her own pinch of Floo powder into the fire.

“Bye, Harry,” she said. “Goodbye, Godric. I’ll bring you a toy mouse with catnip next time I come.”

“He’ll adore that,” Harry replied drily. “Bye, Hermione.”

Once she’d disappeared into the Floo Network, Ron turned to Harry. 

“I had no idea Hermione had invited her until about half an hour before we arrived,” he said. “I don’t know what she was thinking. Sorry again, Harry.”

“Just please tell your fiancée to stop setting me up,” Harry said. “I don’t want or need her to find me a girlfriend.”

“Well, when was the last time you got laid?” Ron asked. Harry’s eyes narrowed again. “Not that it matters, of course! But we just don’t want you to be lonely, OK?”

“I’m not lonely. I have Godric,” Harry replied automatically, then, to his surprise, realised he meant it. It had been nice, having another body around in the evenings for the last few days, even if it was Malfoy, who, when he wasn’t demanding food or head rubs, was actually good company. The cat purred and rubbed against Harry’s legs smugly. Ron looked at the cat. 

“He is mental, that one. Those grey eyes look evil,” he said. “Bye, mate. See you Monday.”

Once Ron, too, had disappeared, Harry gave a huge sigh of relief and closed his fireplace. The evening had been a total failure.

“Just you and me, Puss,” he said, sinking back into the sofa. Draco jumped straight into his lap and curled up. Harry stroked him affectionately. “You were superb with that cow. For the first time since this whole mess started, I am glad you’re here, Draco.”

“Meow,” Draco said, with a contented yawn, which Harry interpreted as, ‘me too.’

*

“You could just tell them you’re gay,” Ginny said on Saturday morning, once Harry had finished describing the Evening from Hell to her. “They’re not going to drop dead from a heart attack, you know, and it means they’d stop trying to set you up with women.”

Harry took a long sip from his overpriced toffee nut latte with whipped cream. It was nice enough, but three Galleons for one cup of coffee was ridiculous, even if there were mini marshmallows. It was why Ginny was paying, given she’d insisted on the stupid Muggle-style coffee shop in the first place for their catch-up. 

“Gin, we’ve been over this,” he said. “What’s the point in telling them, when there’s nothing to tell? It’s not as if I’ve ever acted on it, is it? And what happens if Ron goes ballistic or something, and I lose him, and for what? The fictional boyfriend that I don’t actually have and will probably never have?”

Ginny actually laughed then. She reached over and held his hand. 

“If you think he’d be anything other than supportive, you’re a fucking idiot, Harry Potter,” she chastised. “I know my brother, okay? Ron loves you. He’s not going to fly off the broom handle over this, and it’s actually an insult to him for you think he’d disown you for it. To be honest, I’d be amazed if the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind at least once before, anyway. What’s the worst that could happen by telling him?”

“He could react like you did,” Harry said. 

“That was different.”

“You flew off the broom handle,” Harry replied, and absently rubbed the side of his face with his left hand. “You were furious.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Ginny said. 

“Ginny, you punched me in the jaw!”

“Harry, love, how did you expect me to react? We were in the middle of sex, for Merlin’s sake! One minute I’m sitting on top of you, bouncing up and down and yelling, ‘Yee haw, I’m a naughty cowgirl, I’m riding you so hard, Stallion,’, and the next thing I know you reach up, touch my boob, wince, and say, ‘Oh fuck, I think I’m gay.’ Of course I socked you one.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Harry replied, feeling his face reddening. “My timing really sucked, huh.”

“Yes. I was close to coming, you sod. Finding out my boyfriend would have preferred it if I had a flat chest and a cock kind of killed the mood.” 

Harry didn’t know how to reply to that, so he settled for dipping his index finger into the cream on the top of his coffee and licking it off. 

“But we managed to come through that,” Ginny said, squeezing Harry’s hand reassuringly. “I forgave you for having the mother of all epiphanies while I was in the middle of shagging you, and we’re still really close, aren’t we?” Harry nodded. “Well, surely our situation was ten- no, a hundred- times worse than any situation in which you tell your best friends, right? And yet here I am, and I still have your back. It’s got to be a breeze in comparison, telling Ron and Hermione, surely?”

“Maybe,” Harry said, unconvinced. 

“Have you really never, you know, done anything with a bloke?” Ginny pushed. Harry sighed. 

“One drunken kiss with some Muggle about eighteen months ago,” he admitted. “Apart from the three times you and I had sex, it’s only ever just been me and my right hand.” He suddenly felt really miserable. “I bloody hate being famous sometimes. I just want to be able to live my life and see whoever I want to without it ending up in the papers, or finding out that someone wants me for my name rather than who I am inside.”

“Talk to your friends,” Ginny said. She checked her watch. “Look, I’ve got to go, I’m meeting Nathan in ten minutes. But think about what I said, OK?” She put a few Galleons onto a saucer next to the bill, and stood up. She gave Harry a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

“OK. And thanks, Ginny,” Harry said. He watched her leave to meet her boyfriend, taking another sip of his extortionate coffee, and wondered just when Ginny had grown into this smart, sophisticated woman, rather than the gangly, slightly boyish figure he’d been attracted to at Hogwarts. His moment of coming out to Ginny was a memory that still made him cringe, three years on, and Ginny had rightfully been very hurt by it at the time. But she had been a rock to him since then, and had never yet let him down. He trusted her. Maybe keeping his sexual orientation to himself (and Ginny) had gone on long enough. Harry loathed to admit to himself he was scared of anything, but he was. Scared that Ron would flip and he would lose his best friend. But Ginny’s words kept playing over and over in his mind: _Ron loves you… will be nothing but supportive… insult to him for you to think he’d disown you._ Harry knew Hermione would be fine, and more than likely break into a speech about the Greatest Gay Wizards in History and How They Changed Society. And Ginny was right. Harry thought over everything he and Ron had been through together: hunting Horcruxes, the loss of Fred, even the time Harry had taken a curse for Ron in the field when they were both fresh out of Auror training, and which landed him in St Mungo’s for three weeks. He chastised himself for being an idiot. Yes, he decided, it was time for them to know. 

_And at least they’ll stop setting me up with women all the time_ , his brain added. Which, of course, was just a delightful bonus.


	4. Part Four

Ginny’s parting words to him had finally convinced him, and before he could talk himself out of it (as he had done so on occasion in the past), he made a quick visit to the post office in Diagon Alley, paid for a sheet of parchment, borrowed a quill and drafted a quick letter to Ron and Hermione asking them to visit that afternoon if they didn’t have plans, sent the letter by post owl, and Apparated back home, thinking that perhaps it was time he bought himself a new owl; Hedwig had been gone for nearly eight years, after all. He decided to do so once Draco was human again. He didn’t think he could cope with two crotchety animals vying for his attention at the same time. As he opened the door to his study, however, he could clearly hear the portrait of Walburga Black, screaming her usual supremacist nonsense. Harry quickly made his way down to the ground floor, where the shrieking was getting louder.

“ _Filth! Scum! Mudblood freaks! Half-breed aberrations! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers!”_

Harry quickly took in the sight. There was a smashed vase which had rested on a small table Harry kept his keys and other trinkets upon. It had sent water and flowers scattering across the hallway as it hit the wooden floor, and the crash of it was obviously the cause of the portrait’s awakening. Draco must have knocked it over. And he was currently staring face-to-face with the portrait, his fur up on end and tail swishing, meowing at it and attempting to scratch the painted woman within with his claws. Harry drew his wand and forced the curtains over the picture shut once more. 

“ _Reparo,_ ” he said, pointing his wand at the vase. The pieces flew into the air and knitted themselves back together, before replacing itself neatly on the table. Harry then Vanished the flowers, which had seen better days and needed throwing out anyway really, and dried the floor with another spell. 

“Meow!” said Draco. “Meow, hiss, purr meow!”

Harry took that for, ‘What the fuck is wrong with that picture?’ He chuckled. 

“Lesson learnt,” he said. “Be careful when you’re playing in the hallway. Otherwise you’ll wake up your great aunt, or whatever relation of yours she is. Although she’d actually probably like you if you were human.” He thought of towards the end of the war, where Draco saved Harry’s life in the Manor, and Narcissa lied outright to Voldemort’s face. “Then again, maybe not. You’re probably as big blood traitors as the Weasleys to her now.”

He made himself a ham sandwich for lunch while Draco had a tin of smoked mackerel pâté that Harry had bought from an overpriced, and somewhat pretentious (in Harry’s opinion) Muggle supermarket, but seemed to meet with Draco’s approval, and that was worth every Knut of the Ministry’s Galleon to Harry. He’d just finished clearing away the lunch things and washing up when he heard his fireplace whoosh with the sound of someone Flooing in, followed quickly by Hermione’s voice calling, “Harry?”

“In the kitchen,” he called back. “Be right with you.” He turned to Draco. “Behave,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mind you scratching that Jacqueline bint, but if you go for my friends then you won’t be sharing my bed with me tonight.”

It was only once he was in the living room, greeting his friends, that he realised what the bloody hell he’d just said. He took a second to congratulate himself on his stupidity as he returned to the kitchen to make tea. Human Draco would have ripped the piss out of him for that statement.

It wasn’t as if he’d never looked at Draco in that way. Most women, and quite a few blokes, had, at one point or another. Malfoy wasn’t what would probably be referred to as a ‘pin up boy’ in the Muggle world. His handsomeness was more elegant, more subtle than that, but it was undeniably there. Harry remembered one time when he and Ron had met up with Ginny and Hermione in the pub straight from work and had walked in with a few other Aurors who were meeting their own friends. Malfoy had been among them and Hermione, drunk on her usual three glasses of spritzer, had fired off a three minute long soliloquy about those high cheekbones, pewter, come-hither eyes and toned arms and torso. 

“It’s just a shame it all belongs to Malfoy, really,” she’d said. “Otherwise I could really quite fancy him.”

“Wow,” Ron had replied. “Thank Merlin there’s no one here to overhear this conversation who would get offended by your words. Really dodged the Bludger with that one, love.” Harry had laughed along with the others at the time, but his gaze had lingered on the very torso Hermione had described for a split second too long, and Ginny had shot him a most knowing look, before hiding a smirk behind her own drink. 

The kettle on the stove whistled, snapping Harry back to the present, and he poured the boiling water into a teapot, allowing the tealeaves to steep, and opened a packet of chocolate Hobnobs. 

Draco Malfoy was openly, and proudly, gay. Harry had always admired him for that; he hadn’t even had the guts to come out to his two closest friends, let alone anyone else. Obviously, Malfoy didn’t have the pressures of being the Boy Who Lived and have a perpetual (or so it seemed) posse of paparazzi recording his every move as Harry did, but he had worked bloody hard to rise from being seen as nothing but an accused Death Eater to a respected and accomplished Auror (most recent debacle of a case aside, that was), especially in a wizarding society that, while not homophobic exactly, was certainly less accepting of same-sex unions than Muggle Britain. It all came down to the passing-on of magical DNA- if a witch or wizard was in a same-sex relationship then he or she was unlikely to ever have children and therefore add to the magical population, which was already fairly small.

He made to pick up the tea tray and realised his palms were sweating. He could admit to himself that he was nervous about his friends’ reaction. OK, so he was more than nervous. Instead of carrying a tray with hot water on it with moist hands and risk dropping the bloody thing, Harry chose to Levitate it into the living room, where the sight that greeted him distracted him from his nerves temporarily. He placed the tray on the coffee table and grinned. 

Hermione had been true to her word, and had brought a catnip-filled mouse with her for Draco to play with. And he was currently rolling around the living room carpet like he was writhing in orgasm, almost _moaning_ \- or as close as felines came to moaning anyway- attacking the toy mouse as if it were a feast given to a starving man. 

“Godric really loves his new mouse, doesn’t he?” Hermione said, smiling. “Apparently, catnip has the same effect on the feline brain as marijuana does on the human one.”

“You mean you’ve got my cat high?” Harry asked in amusement. He crossed the room to his dresser, opened a drawer, and pulled out a rarely-used camera. Draco needed to see this once he was human again. Or, he didn’t, but Harry needed Draco to see it, simply for the hilarity factor and the fact that Draco would be mortified. He snapped a few shots, then replaced the camera in the drawer. He poured the tea, took a couple of biscuits, and handed the rest of the packet to Ron, where he knew they’d only end up anyway. 

“So, I, um, wanted to talk to you both,” he said, his nerves returning. He took a sip of his tea and grimaced. In his nervous state he’d forgotten to add milk. _Sort yourself out,_ he chastised himself. _This isn’t a big deal, OK?_ He picked up the milk jug and poured some milk into his cup.

Hermione instantly sobered.

“Oh, Harry, is this about last night? Are you still angry with Ronald and me? Well, me mainly, because Ron didn’t know about Jacqueline until just before we left, and- well, I’m sorry I brought her here, but I only have your happiness at heart.” Harry smiled. 

“No, it’s not about that. Well, it sort of is, but not really. I mean, I didn’t ask you here to have a go or anything. Last night just made me realise… um… oh, bloody hell.” He took another sip of tea. 

“Oo okay, ‘ate?” Ron said, his mouth full of Hobnob. 

“Yeah,” Harry said uncertainly. He took a deep breath. _Now or never_. “It’s just that… Hermione, even if you set me up with the perfect woman, I still wouldn’t be interested in dating her. Not now, not ever. Because I don’t like women. I mean romantically! I like women obviously, I’m not a misogynist, but I don’t want to have sex with them. I want to have sex with men.”

Well, that hadn’t come out at all how Harry had rehearsed it in his mind. And it wasn’t nearly as eloquent. In fact, he thought he’d just rather sounded like a class A tit. But it was out now, just like he was, and he couldn’t take the words back. Hermione and Ron both froze, Ron with a half chewed biscuit visible (Harry wished he’d close his mouth), and stared at him. Even Draco stopped convulsing on the floor and looked at him, head tilted. Harry wondered exactly how much he understood in his cat form. 

“You’re gay, mate?” Ron said finally, once he’d swallowed the mouthful of biscuit. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied with an uneasy laugh. “That’s kind of what I meant by ‘I want to have sex with men’.” The stupefied expression on Ron’s face would be amusing to Harry if he wasn’t so tense. A deafening silence fell across the room.

“For fuck’s sake, Harry!” Ron bellowed finally, causing Harry to jump. “You’ve just earned me a month of performing cunnilingus on demand.”

Harry blinked. “Um, what?” he said, confused. He looked at Hermione now, how was beaming. 

“I told you so, Ronald,” she said smugly. “Oh, Harry, I’m delighted you finally told us.”

Harry had a massive feeling he was really missing something here.

“There’s not a single part of this conversation I don’t need explained to me,” he said. Draco jumped on him then and began to knead his chest, purring. Harry scratched his head. Harry took the gesture as Draco’s approval for his announcement.

“We had a bet,” Ron said. “It’s been going on since Christmas. Hermione reckoned she caught you ogling some bloke in the pub and said it all suddenly made sense, and I said no way. I was so sure I was right that I, um, proposed the terms of the bet. You had to come out by June, or I won. Merlin, I didn’t think for a second I was going to lose it. Just think: a month of being able to demand blowjobs whenever I wanted. I was really looking forward to it.” His eyes clouded over in what Harry decided was a wistful lust, and a look which Harry never wished to see on his friend’s face again in his presence. 

“So Hermione suspected I liked blokes, didn’t say anything to me, and you made an insane and somewhat mentally disturbing- for me- bet over it,” Harry summarised, really trying his best not to think about his friends in any sort of sexual contact. Eugh. “Am I following so far?” He felt rather annoyed about this, but on the plus side neither seemed to be about to disown him, and he suddenly felt ridiculous for not telling them sooner. “Hang on a minute, Hermione, if you knew I was gay, then why did you try and set me up with Jacqueline? Was this your plan? ‘I’m going to set Harry up with the worst woman I can find, and it’ll be so ghastly that it will finally convince him to tell us he’s gay’?” He didn’t bother adding that it had actually worked. Hermione already looked far too pleased with herself. 

“No, Harry,” she said. “Not exactly. I admit I thought that if I tried to set you up, you would eventually tell us the truth just to get me to stop, but I genuinely thought Jacqueline was OK. She has always seemed perfectly lovely at work. I wasn’t trying to force you to come out by arranging some sort of horror date. Just a female one.”

“So I guess this is why you and Ginny didn’t work out then,” Ron said. “You know, there was something odd about the, ‘we have realised we are not meant to me together’ reason you gave us. She already knows, doesn’t she.” It wasn’t a question, and Harry didn’t take it as one. 

“Yes,” he replied. “I thought she deserved to know the reason why we couldn’t be together, so I told her.” He conveniently left out the part about how they were shagging at the time. He didn’t feel Ron would continue to be calm if he heard that. Besides, it wasn’t a _lie_ , exactly. It just wasn’t the truth. “And she’s been completely amazing about it, too. After she stopped yelling at me.”

“So, is there a special man in your life?” Hermione asked, taking a Hobnob from the packet that Ron had taken possession of, and dunking it into her tea. 

“No one,” Harry replied. He tried to keep the resentful tone from his voice, but he didn’t think he’d been very successful. Indeed, one look to both his friends’ faces confirmed this. They were both looking at him in sympathy. “Not exactly easy for me to date, is it?” 

“You know, Harry, there is a man in my department who’s gay, maybe I-”

“No, Hermione!” Harry shouted, a little louder than he’d probably intended and causing both Hermione and Draco to jump slightly. “I appreciate the thought, I really do, but no. More. Set-ups. Clear?” He said it with a smile on his face, but his tone left no room for doubt that he meant his words. 

“Crystal,” Hermione replied, taking a sip of her tea. Draco began licking himself them, one leg cocked into the air while his rough pink tongue worked his abdomen. He had exposed himself fully to Harry’s guests, and Harry didn’t like it. Draco may be trapped in the body of a cat but it was still him, and Harry felt it was his responsibility as both Draco’s temporary owner and his Auror partner to try and preserve Draco’s modesty when he was incapable of doing so himself. He had just reached for the Afghan over the back of the sofa when Hermione looked at the cat and said, “Oh my, Harry, you need to have your cat neutered.”

Groaning inwardly and wrapping the blanket around Draco’s bits, Harry replied, “Godric is an indoor cat. It’s too dangerous around here to let him out, what with the traffic around here and stuff, so it doesn’t really matter if he’s neutered or not as he’s not coming into contact with female cats, and I’ve warded the house to stop him escaping.” That had been one of the first things he’d done after he and Kingsley thought Draco had run off, on Draco’s very first day at Grimmauld Place. “Besides,” Harry added, improvising, “I’m not going to have him forever. Only until mid-February. It was a month’s trial period, you see, and I just don’t think I’m ready to have a cat.”

“Bollocks, mate,” Ron said. “Look at you both. He never leaves you alone and, Harry, you love that animal. I can tell. You need each other.”

Harry didn’t have a single cohesive thought to give in response to that. 

*

Ron and Hermione ended up staying for dinner that night, where they talked more about Harry’s sexual orientation amongst other things, then Harry curled up on the sofa to watch _The Fellowship of the Ring_ with Draco in his lap. Muggle films involving magic and wizardry, and magical creatures, were his guilty pleasure. He loved to spend the whole of the film praising the accuracies, and yelling at the screen when inaccuracies occurred. Gandalf always reminded him of Dumbledore, and made him feel a bit melancholy. He switched off the DVD as the credits began to roll, called for Draco to come to bed, and went through his evening routine quickly. Once he was lying in bed, Draco curled up asleep in the warmest spot, Harry went over the afternoon’s events in his mind. 

Coming out to his friends had left Harry feeling like a prize prat, if he was honest with himself. He had managed to conjure up scenario after scenario in his mind where his friends disowned him, or were upset with him when they found out, when, in actual fact, Ginny had been spot-on as usual. Harry even though Ron had looked a little hurt at one point, when Harry was talking about keeping it to himself. Harry had more than once chastised himself for keeping it quiet for so long. Both Ron and Hermione had given Harry a heartfelt, genuine hug when they’d left, and Ron had said in his ear, for Harry’s hearing only, “Trust me in future, Harry.” He fell asleep that night with a contented smile gracing his lips. 

The following morning Harry treated himself to a fry-up (serving eggs and some bacon to Draco), then headed out to the shops. He stocked up on ridiculously priced food for both himself and his fussy feline from Waitrose, returned home, put it all away, then Apparated to the pet shop he’d visited on Draco’s first day to stock up on items. 

He pulled anther large sack of cat litter from the shelf and dumped it into his trolley, and also picked up a grooming brush. Maybe Draco would like it if Harry groomed him? Was that too weird? Harry also picked up a packet of dried catnip, and laughed to himself quietly. Watching Draco Malfoy, cool, haughty Auror, rolling around on the floor in pleasure had been extremely amusing. And Harry definitely wanted to see it again. 

After lugging all the shopping back to Grimmauld Place, Harry changed the litter tray, cooked lunch, then spent the rest of his Sunday afternoon reading the _Sunday Prophet_ and watching some Muggle football match on the telly. He wished wizards had a magical equivalent of television; it would be brilliant to watch, for example, the Magpies against the Cannons on TV. Would beat having to stand in a freezing stadium with about fifty Warming Charms on him just so he could feel his toes, simply to watch a game of Quidditch, anyway. After the football he did his laundry, on which he’d become woefully behind, and cast a few quick Cleaning Charms around the house. 

Grimmauld Place really was huge. Too big really, for just him. Harry wasn’t lonely. He really wasn’t. He had a job that he adored (when Robards wasn’t being a complete bastard), good friends he loved dearly and saw frequently, and people he considered family in the Weasleys. He was genuinely happy with his life. But he couldn’t help looking at Hermione and Ron, and feel jealous of them. He wanted what they had with each other, with someone. Someone who would stay home from work and make him soup when he had the flu, or scrub his back in the bath. Someone that sat up and held Harry all night after he’d been on a distressing Auror case involving a murder or other harrowing crime. Someone that Harry could kiss, and touch, and make love with, and wake up with in the morning holding. Someone he could share his life with. The huge space of Grimmauld Place just seemed to emphasise dramatically that Harry had none of those things. He realised with a jolt that he was really going to miss having Draco around, when he returned to his human form. Having another heartbeat around the house made the vast emptiness seem just that little bit smaller.

*

The first time Harry really, really missed Draco in his human capacity was towards the end of January, two weeks after Draco had first been trapped in his cat form. He had finally been removed from his role as the trainees’ target practice (Harry strongly suspected Kingsley’s intervention there) and sent out on his first field duty since the Brockway and Peterson case. Robards had teamed him with Alexandra Fairweather, a highly ambitious but standoffish witch, who greatly objected to Harry’s ‘act first, think later’ approach. “Are you sure we should?” seemed to be her favourite saying, and after three days of being doubted and second-guessed continuously, one time which actually prevented Harry from apprehending his suspect, he found himself longing for his Slytherin partner back. 

It’s not something Harry ever thought he’d want. When Robards had paired him and Malfoy (who was fresh out of Auror training at the time) together, two years ago, Harry had pitched a fit. He’d appealed to Robards. He’d even appealed to Kingsley. Only his pride and sense of professionalism prevented him from trying to use the ‘but I’m Harry Potter! Boy who Lived!’ line. Nothing had worked, and initially, Harry had wondered just how long it would be until he and Malfoy ended up duelling one another. And the pair did have some humungous arguments, no doubt about that. But as the weeks turned into months, and they continued to be partners, Harry realised something else about himself and Malfoy. They worked extremely well together. 

Malfoy was a gifted wizard, and his knowledge of barely-legal, but extremely effective, curses and hexes were second to none in the Auror department. He was nimble, athletic and fast-thinking, not to mention clever, and his work ethic complimented Harry’s perfectly. They worked fluidly, instinctively, together, and had been partners long enough now to know what the other was thinking and how they were going to act in the vast majority of situations. Sure, they had had a few spectacular failures (Malfoy’s current situation being the prime example) but they had had enough brilliant successes to counter this that they were considered amongst the best pair in the department. Of course they still rowed and bickered, but something else had grown between them in the two years they had worked together: trust. And, while he and Malfoy weren’t exactly friends, they were no longer the enemies they had been at school, and even had a grudging respect for one another. 

Harry had none of this with Miss Fairweather. And he missed it. And, worryingly, he missed Draco himself, he was beginning to realise. He missed the banter and the sarcastic remarks. He missed seeing Malfoy’s arrogant face flushed and superior, glowing with triumph as he apprehended a suspect. But above all that, at this exact moment in time, he really, really missed the fact that Malfoy could aim his fucking wand accurately, which Fairweather seemed unable to do.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” she cried, during their latest mission, on the first of February, which involved Harry and Fairweather chasing down the estranged husband of a woman who had turned up in St Mungo’s with deep slashes in her wrists, having tried to kill herself. It had turned out that she had been under the Imperius Curse at the time, and once she came round and the curse lifted she told the Aurors that her husband had placed the spell on her and ordered her to commit suicide. The spell Fairweather cast was aimed for the husband in question, who was currently struggling with Harry in a duel (the former having snuck up on Harry while he was searching the address the victim had given), but unfortunately for Harry, her aim was off by several inches and it caught Harry squarely on his right arm. His holly wand flew in the air and landed several feet away with a loud clatter. The suspect laughed, while Fairweather froze in shock.

“Bloody women,” he sneered, wand pointed straight at Harry. “Fucking bunch of incompetent sluts, the lot of them. _Diffindo._ ”

Harry gasped as the spell shot out of his suspect’s wand and slashed his chest, causing white-hot pain to spread throughout his body. He heard Fairweather shriek and finally catch the suspect in a Full Body-bind Curse, before she rushed over to him.

“Oh God, Harry, I’m so sorry!” she said, her voice full of tears. She touched his chest for a second and, when she pulled away, Harry saw her hand was drenched in blood. His blood. Bugger. This was serious. 

“I need to get you to St Mungo’s,” he heard Fairweather’s voice saying, as his vision clouded, only to be replaced with swirling patterns of colour. 

“Yeah, St Mungo’s,” he heard himself agree. “Um, Alexandra, can you make sure someone feeds my cat while I’m away? He likes chicken.” And with that he finally gave in to the blackness. 


	5. Part Five

Harry stirred groggily from sleep, and was immediately aware of an intense bolt of nausea in his gut, followed by the realisation he was about a nanosecond away from throwing up. His eyes flew wide open and he leant over the side of his bed just in time, emptying his stomach of its contents onto the floor, before wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and collapsing back onto the pillows, panting slightly, and feeling a dull ache in his cramping abdominal muscles, caused by the exertion of vomiting. Only then did he realise where he was. St Mungo’s. Because, his memory supplied, he’d been hit with a Severing Charm (and a bloody strong one at that, if his recall served him well), and had bled all over Alexandra Fairweather. It all came rushing back to him now, in a sea of crimson and pain. Bollocks. 

“Feeling better now, Auror Potter?” a voice asked him. Harry, unaware that he hadn’t been alone, jumped at the voice and looked around, somewhat blindly without his glasses; locating the shape of another person, he concentrated hard and squinted at the figure: female, certainly, and possibly quite a large build, given the outline he could make out, but without his glasses he couldn’t tell any more. 

“Yeah, thanks. I’m really sorry about that,” he said, indicating the vomit and feeling his cheeks heat up. Throwing up in front of medical staff hadn’t been in his agenda for the day, somehow, and now that he had, he felt as he always did when something forced him to show a weakness in front of others: pathetic and inept. 

“Not to worry, Auror, I assure you it’s nothing I haven’t seen many times before,” the voice said, and a pair of hands suddenly reached forwards towards Harry. He saw that they were holding his glasses. He took them gratefully and slipped them back onto his nose, relishing in the reward of crisp, clear vision he received once he’d done so. He was in a private room, away from the main ward, and for that he was extremely grateful. Last time he’d been injured in the line of duty and ended up in St Mungo’s, three years ago, he’d received a bed on the main Spell Damage ward, and had been inundated by well-meaning but totally unwelcome visitors, supposedly there to see friends and family but far more interested in the Chosen One. The lack of strangers huddling around his bed was brilliant.

The Healer, Healer Shelby (according to her name badge anyway) smiled at him and handed him a glass of water, from which he drank deeply, thankful to rid his mouth of the sour taste of stomach bile, then she Vanished the pile of sick from the floor, and followed up with what Harry knew to be a strong antiseptic charm. It was the same charm he had used many times in the last few weeks around his home, given there was now a cat in it. A cat. Who was actually Draco Malfoy. On his own. In Harry’s house. Fuck.

“Draco!” he said aloud, unthinking. It was at that moment that Hermione and Ron chose to walk into the room, each carrying a polystyrene cup filled with brown sludge water that passed as coffee in St Mungo’s, evidently having only recently left his bedside. Both shot him a relieved look to see he had woken up, but Hermione’s questioning glance at Harry’s outburst was a little too disconcerting for Harry. She was far too perceptive. Harry hoped he could pass yelling out Draco Malfoy’s name off on the fact he was still confused.

“Harry! Oh, it’s lovely to see that you’re awake,” Hermione said, handing her cup of sludge to Ron and instantly fussing with Harry’s hair, stoking his back from his face in that way women always did when presented with someone infirm, while Ron stood uselessly by the bedside and beamed at his best friend. “Your colour is better. You’ve looked pretty awful for the past couple of days.”

“Thanks,” Harry said wryly. “Although I doubt you would have thought I looked better five minutes ago, when I’d thrown up everywhere.” Hermione’s words then registered fully. “Um, did you say I’ve been asleep a couple of days? Has anyone been feeding Dra- I mean, Godric?” 

“Course, mate, I’ve been in and put food down for him,” Ron said. “Fussy little bugger though, isn’t he? Wouldn’t touch any of that fancy overpriced cat food Hermione buys for Crookshanks. I ended up giving him a tuna steak that was in your fridge. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it was for him anyway,” Harry said. “ _A couple of days_ though? How bad exactly was this bloody hex?”

Harry looked over at Healer Shelby then, and saw she was flashing Hermione an annoyed look, just as Hermione was about to speak. Hermione flushed pink and closed her mouth again. Clearly, Harry thought, the Healer believed she should be the one talking to Harry about his injury. Harry kind of agreed with her there. 

“The spell cut pretty deep,” Healer Shelby said. “You lost rather a lot of blood, I’m afraid, as the spell managed to slice into your abdominal aorta. It was extremely serious, and about half an inch to the left would have severed it completely and you would have lost too much blood, too quickly to survive.” 

Harry blinked, and Hermione released a small noise, crossed between a squeak and a sob, while Ron squeezed one of the polystyrene cups too hard and crushed it, spilling hot not-coffee all over his hand, causing him to jump and curse loudly. Harry had known it must have been serious, given the amount of time he’d been unconscious for, but not that bad. Clearly his friends hadn’t known the full extent either, given their startled reactions. He’d nearly died. Again. One of these days his luck was surely going to run out. All this from a simple, supposedly benign Severing Charm, taught to all Hogwarts students by tiny, squeaky Professor Flitwick well before OWL level, yet had caused as much damage as any Dark magic could. Harry truly had never appreciated now dangerous the spell could be before. He’d been slashed at least as badly as Draco had been at Harry’s own hands thanks to Snape’s Sectumsempra spell. 

“We obviously gave you a lot of super-strength Blood-Replenishing Potion, which has caused your nausea, and the slashes on your chest have fully healed without scarring thanks to a combination of some extremely quick spell work from my colleagues and Dittany,” the Healer said. “Physically, you’re completely recovered. We were just waiting for you to wake up. I’ll come back in a couple of hours, and as long as you manage to eat something and keep it down, and your vital signs all look good, we can discharge you.” She smiled formally at him and left the room. Harry sank back onto his pillows. 

“Bloody hell,” he said aloud, to no one in particular. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re twenty-four, Harry,” Hermione replied. 

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time I got a sensible desk job instead of all this Auror malarkey. I’m twenty-five in July and, you know, that’s a dangerous, um, body age,” Harry finished lamely. Hermione and Ron both cocked their eyebrows at him in identical cynical gestures (Ron had clearly been learning from his fiancée); they knew Harry adored his job and wouldn’t give it up for the world. Hermione opened her mouth, clearly about to argue this point, and Harry found he really couldn’t be bothered with it.

“So, Ron,” he said, cutting Hermione off before she managed to get a word out, “how’s that oral sex on demand thing working out for you then? Jaw cramping yet?”

Both Ron and Hermione shut up instantly and flushed red. Harry grinned. Score one for Potter.

*

Harry was kept in St Mungo’s overnight, due to another bout of nasty sickness after he had attempted some lunch, but after he managed to keep his breakfast down and had his blood pressure and heart rate checked (both perfectly normal, thankfully), the Healer-in-Charge signed his discharge forms and Ron came to help him Floo to Grimmauld Place. 

As soon as they stepped out of the living room fireplace, Harry’s nose wrinkled as the disgusting smell of a litter tray that hadn’t been cleaned out for three days hit his nostrils, and he felt his still- delicate stomach react unpleasantly. Ron had clearly noticed too, and with a hurried, “I’m on it, Harry,” he dashed into the kitchen. Harry heard Ron’s cry of, “ _Evanesco_!” followed by a freshening charm and was relieved when the smell disappeared. Ron reappeared a minute or two later, looking sheepish. 

“Sorry, Harry, I owe you a litter tray. I accidentally Vanished the whole fucking thing, instead of just the litter inside,” he said. Harry grinned, then began to laugh. He was still laughing when Ron helped him into an armchair (even though Harry insisted he was perfectly capable of doing it himself), then disappeared back into the kitchen to make tea. Harry, still smiling, looked around his living room with fondness. It was good to be home. 

He spotted Draco then, perched stiffly in the centre of an armchair, his tail swishing and his grey eyes narrowed as he shot Harry a cold look. Harry’s good mood disappeared in an instant. He looked round quickly to make sure Ron wasn’t coming back.

“Hey, Draco,” he said. Draco glared at him, and Harry was half-amused, half- exasperated that the look was exactly the same on this face as it was on his human counterpart. “Don’t glare at me, OK?”

Draco continued to sit as stiff as a board, never taking his eyes off Harry. He was clearly completely vexed. Harry stood up, walked over to Draco, and perched on the arm of the chair.

“Look, I-” he started, but Draco hissed and swiped a paw at Harry’s hand, just as he stretched it out to scratch Draco’s head in the way Harry knew he enjoyed. “Ouch! What the-”

Feelings hurt far more than the now bleeding index finger on his right hand, Harry pulled his arm away quickly, unwilling to admit to himself just how much Draco’s rejection had upset him. With a look of pure contempt, Draco jumped off the chair, stretched out and scratched his claws on Harry’s expensive sofa (ignoring, as he always did, the scratching post that Harry had struggled to Apparate home with once), then slinked out of the room, just as Ron came in, carrying two mugs of tea (and a plate of sandwiches for Harry) on a small tray which had a picture of a snowman and a robin on it. He set the tray down on the coffee table.

“Drink up,” Ron said. “You’ve not had a decent cuppa for a while. That stuff they serve in hospital is barely fit for human consumption.” He caught Harry’s shocked expression as he handed him a mug. “What’s the matter?”

“Godric,” Harry replied, taking a sip of his tea. “He, um, well, I- look!” He showed Ron his bleeding finger. To his surprise, Ron chuckled. 

“Cats,” he said, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Crookshanks does this too, if Hermione and I are away for more than twenty-four hours. Remember when I took her to Venice for a long weekend to propose? He wouldn’t come near us for three days when we got home.”

“I’ve hardly been on holiday though,” Harry seethed. “I’ve been in hospital. Unconscious. Almost bleeding to sodding death. You’d have thought he would understand that.”

At those words, Harry heard a faint “Meow!” from the hallway, then Draco sped back into the living room, launched himself into Harry’s lap, and began to lick his face all over with his sandpaper tongue, then pushing his head against Harry’s cheek in an affectionate way, before resuming his licking. It was clearly a sign of both affection and apology, and Harry was more than happy to accept both. Until that moment, Harry had been unsure just how much Draco understood in his animal form, but his reaction to Harry’s words was all the proof he needed that his feline companion understood him just fine. He chuckled and began to stroke the cat back, as an inexplicable relief flooded through him.

“There’s something weird about that cat,” Ron said, eyeing Draco suspiciously. “There’s not any Kneazle blood in him, is there?”

“Don’t think so,” Harry said, then, desperate to change the subject and get it off the ‘just who, exactly, is your cat’ line he could see the conversation heading in, asked, “But you did tell, er, Godric that I was in hospital, right? So he knew I didn’t just abandon him?”

“Yeah, course I did,” Ron replied. His voice was laced with sarcasm. “I took him out for a beer, sat him down with a packet of pork scratchings and explained the whole scenario to him.”

“So that would be a no then,” Harry said. “No wonder Godric thinks I just left him alone! He didn’t know where I was!”

“He’s a cat, Harry. How, exactly, was I supposed to enlighten him?”

Harry had no reply to that. Somehow he didn’t think, “Actually, it’s not a cat, it’s Draco Malfoy, surprise!” would go down too well, so he conceded defeat. 

Ron drank deeply from his mug, sighed contentedly, then looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. 

“I’ve got to get back to work. I was only allowed an hour or so to see you home safely. I’ll pop in on my way home though, and if you need anything, just send me a Patronus,” he said. “How long is Robards giving you off?”

“A week,” Harry replied. Ron snorted.

“Lucky bastard,” he said. 

“Yeah. A week without having to go to work. Almost worth suffering near- exsanguination, isn’t it?”

Ron chuckled lightly then set his now empty mug back onto the tray.

“Don’t scare me like that again, mate,” he said seriously, clasping Harry tightly on the shoulder. “See you in a few hours.” Then he turned on the spot and Disapparated. Harry sighed, picked up one of the sandwiches (cheese and pickle, not bad), then sunk back into his chair. His house was too big, and too quiet, and he was too alone. It sucked. 

*

Harry spent the remainder of the day snoozing on the sofa with Draco on his lap, watching daytime TV (an American chat show whose presenter’s sole purpose seemed to be interviewing poorly educated people incapable of talking to one another without screeching and swearing to determine who, from a selection of possible men, was, indeed, a child’s biological father), and reading the _Prophet’s_ account of the arrest and his injury. For once it seemed to have got it pretty accurate, although Harry did wince at the term “Brave Heroism”. He preferred the term “Monumental Cockup.” On Alexandra Fairweather’s part, at least. 

Harry had already made his mind up that he wasn’t going to work with the woman again. It was counter-productive. When he was working with Draco, Harry knew one hundred percent that Draco had his back, and that was how it had to be, in his job. Alexandra had not only second-guessed every idea he’d had, but she had Disarmed him, leaving him defenceless against a highly dangerous suspect who was wanted by the Aurors for practising Unforgivables, and for attempted murder. Albeit by accident, but it didn’t take away from the fact that, had it been he and Draco out in the field three days ago, their suspect would have been swiftly and efficiently dealt with and taken into Auror custody, and Harry wouldn’t have received a single scratch. Harry would have bet his entire Gringotts vault on that. 

Draco, clearly delighted to have Harry home, followed Harry wherever Harry went- including, to Harry’s annoyance, to the bathroom. 

“You’re not going to watch me on the loo,” he told Draco firmly. “Some things a man needs to do in private, OK?” 

That didn’t stop Draco offering a pathetic ‘meow’ outside the door the entire time Harry was in there, and when Harry emerged, Draco purred loudly and weaved precariously through Harry’s legs, as if Harry had been gone a week, not five minutes. Harry guessed Draco really was worried about him. It was a nice feeling. 

Ron arrived, with Hermione, just after six. Ron had bought a replacement litter tray with him, and went into the kitchen to set it up, whilst Hermione gave Harry a hug, fussed over whether he was warm enough, and offered to make him some chicken soup. His first instinct was to say no, that he could manage perfectly well on his own, but this was _Hermione_ , for Merlin’s sake, so he nodded, and Hermione disappeared into the kitchen. Soon, Harry’s living room was filled with the warming, aromatic scent of chicken and herbs, then Hermione came in, Levitating a large pot of soup, a crusty loaf, and a slab of real butter. 

“That looks fantastic, Hermione,” Harry said genuinely, as Ron groaned in appreciation. Even Draco awoke from the spot he’d curled into and gave an interested sniff. Hermione beamed at them both, and set the food down on the coffee table. She ladled out three portions of hot, deliciously thick soup into bowls, and Harry cut the loaf, dunking a chunk of bread into his soup and biting into it. The soup was perfect, and seemed to warm every single inch of him.

“I left a chicken breast out for Godric,” Hermione said, as she sat back on the sofa with her own bowl, her feet tucked to one side. “I know he doesn’t eat cat food. It’s in his bowl.” 

Harry was suddenly overcome with a rush of warm affection for Hermione. Honestly, he didn’t know what he’d do without her sometimes. Just then, Harry heard a small crack of Apparition coming from his study, and a voice call, “Harry?”

It was Ginny. Harry called to her to come downstairs, and Ginny entered the living room, her cheeks pink from the obvious cold outside. She smiled at him as soon as she saw him, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, asked him how he was feeling, and began the same fussing that Hermione had, when Harry was still in St Mungo’s. Draco, who had been dozing languidly in his warm spot by the fire, was suddenly on full alert; he sat upright, adopting the same, stiff pose he had for Harry’s return that morning, and fixed his cool grey eyes on Ginny. Then he jumped onto Harry’s lap in what, if Harry hadn’t have known better, was a jealous outburst of, ‘Mine’, and continued to stare with slightly narrowed eyes. Ginny looked surprised for all of a second, however, before she was pulling the scarf from her neck and taking off her snow-covered bobble hat. 

“Soup?” Hermione asked her. Ginny looked like she would kiss her, too. 

“I would actually kill for some,” she replied. “You’re lucky, avoiding the snow here. It’s about two inches thick in Holyhead, and bitter bloody cold. Sadistic captain still sent us up to practise, though. Had us flying over the Brecon Beacons for three freezing hours this afternoon.”

Hermione Summoned a bowl for her from the kitchen, and filled it with soup. Ginny sank into the chair, grabbed a spoon, and attacked the soup with enthusiasm. “Merlin, Hermione, this is wonderful,” she said, around a mouthful of soup. 

“Hey! How come you think she made it? Why not me?” Ron said, affronted. 

“Because, dear brother, your cooking tastes like shit,” Ginny replied bluntly, and Harry and Hermione laughed. “Can I have some of that bread?”

The next few hours passed extremely happily for Harry, as he enjoyed his impromptu dinner party with his three closest friends. He endured some good-natured ribbing from all three (but mainly Ginny) about hiding his sexual orientation for so long, which, with the benefit of hindsight, he figured he probably deserved. By half past ten, he thought he should probably go to bed, what with almost bleeding to death just eighty or so hours previously, but he’d spent the majority of them asleep, plus a large portion of the afternoon, and he didn’t feel tired. However when Hermione fell asleep on Ron’s shoulder and began to snore, Ron decided to take her home.

“Sorry about leaving the mess, Harry,” he said. 

“It’s alright. It’s only a few bowls,” Harry said, wishing selfishly that he still had Kreacher. But Kreacher was happy at Hogwarts, and Harry didn’t want to call him back just to wash up a few pots. 

“It’s OK, Ron, I’ll stay and do them,” Ginny offered, and Harry flashed her a smile. Ron said his thanks, woke an extremely groggy Hermione up (who flushed scarlet when she realised she’d dribbled all over Ron’s shoulder), and together they entered Harry’s fireplace, threw in some Floo powder, and disappeared home. 

As it happened, Harry ended up washing, while Ginny dried and put the items away. Draco, meanwhile, moodily ate the chicken breast in his bowl, never once taking his eyes off Ginny. Every time Ginny laughed at a joke Harry told, or touched his arm, he hissed in warning. 

“And I’m never working with her again,” Harry said, as he washed the final spoon, finishing his story about Alexandra. “She’s OK, almost getting me killed aside, but she has nothing on Draco.”

“Oh, since when have you called Malfoy ‘ _Draco’_?” Ginny said, giggling. Harry froze, realising his slip-up. Bugger. 

“Since I realised that, actually, he’s a bloody brilliant Auror partner,” Harry said honestly, picking up a drinking glass and dipping it into the soap suds. “I’ve actually really missed him since he went on sick leave, to be honest.”

“Of course you have, Harry. You fancy the pants off him.”

Harry dropped the glass he was holding back into the water, causing foamy piles of Fairy washing up liquid to splatter onto his glasses and nose. 

“Um, what?!” 

“Harry, you don’t even know how much you talk about him,” Ginny said. “It’s always, ‘Malfoy did this, Malfoy did that, Malfoy is such a pain in the arse’. And it’s been that way for at least a year now.”

“How is me complaining about him, me fancying him? I mean, yeah, he’s not exactly hard on the eye, but that’s about it,” Harry said, incredulous. Of all the stupid things for Ginny to think…

“Really, Harry. I know you’re shite at this relationship stuff; I mean, you didn’t even work out you were gay until you were twenty-one, had been going out with me again for months, and had to have it all but spelt out to you by a pair of boobs wobbling in your face. But surely even you must know how you feel about Malfoy. It’s obvious. No one has ever been able to get under your skin like he does.”

“Because I don’t like the prick!” Harry yelled. _But that’s not entirely true, is it?_ his brain argued. He’d come to that conclusion a long time ago. 

“Meow,” said a sad, mournful pussy cat, and Harry suddenly realised what he’d just said, and who, exactly, had just heard. He had no idea what to say, to either Ginny or cat, and suddenly wished he’d just done the fucking dishes himself and sent Ginny home. 

“Godric, come here,” Harry said, and scooped the uncooperative cat into his arms. “Give us a sec, Gin, I need a word with him,” he said, then disappeared into the downstairs loo, closing the door behind him. He perched on the closed toilet lid, with Draco in his lap. 

“I’m sorry, Draco. I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I do like you, and I certainly don’t think you’re a prick, OK? I don’t know why I said that. Forgive me?” He scratched Draco’s head affectionately. Draco licked his hand and purred. Harry took that for a yes. “Thanks. And I promise not to say anything like that again, alright?”

He stood and opened the door abruptly, and a red-headed figure nearly fell through from the other side. Ginny steadied herself quickly, and stood up, her face shocked. 

“ _That’s Draco Malfoy_?! _”_ she squeaked, pointing at the cat. Harry ignored the question. 

“What gives you the right to eavesdrop on my private conversations?” he yelled, realising as he said it just how crazy that just sounded. Ginny snorted. 

“Harry, you got out of hospital twelve hours ago, after suffering a very serious injury. Then you drag a _cat_ off to a toilet for a private chat. I was worried you might be unwell, or something, as it’s not exactly normal behaviour, is it? Tell me you wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing, go on!”

Harry couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t, because Ginny was right. Of course he would have done the same.

“Yes, it’s Draco,” Harry sighed. “He’s kind of trapped like this. For another eleven days.” 

Harry ended up explaining the whole story to her, about how Draco was a secret, unregistered Animagus- something known only to Harry and very few others, about the spell which trapped him as a feline, and how Harry has been looking after him for a few weeks. 

“He seems to be understanding more of what’s going on as we get closer to the fifteenth, like his human mind is gradually coming back or something. He was all cat for the first week. I’ve not told Ron and Hermione, and I need you to promise me you’ll keep this to yourself,” Harry said. “Draco’s Animagus status has helped us solve a lot of cases, and it’s vital it doesn’t get out.”

“What do you take me for?” Ginny replied, but her voice had softened. “Well, this explains the insane jealousy he’s shown all evening, anyway. I just thought you had a maniac cat.”

“Jealous? Why would Draco be jealous of you?” Harry replied, genuinely confused. Ginny just laughed, but didn’t reply. Instead, she bent down and tickled Draco under the chin, who glared at her, but didn’t pull away. She whispered something into Draco’s ear that Harry didn’t catch, but Draco relaxed and began to purr, so Harry let it go. 

“See you later, Harry,” Ginny said. “It’s late and I’ve got Quidditch training at seven in the bloody morning. I’ll see you later, OK?” She grabbed her coat, scarf and hat, kissed Harry on the cheek, said, “Bye, _Godric_ ,” and stepped into the fireplace, grabbing some Floo powder as she did so. “Harry, think about what I said, OK? I love you, and I want you to be happy, but the whole time you’re a clueless idiot about your own feelings, you’re not going to be. Not fully, anyway,” Ginny said. She tossed the powder into the flames, turning them emerald, mumbled something about how she couldn’t believe Harry was living with Draco Malfoy, and called out her home address, before disappearing. 

Harry sighed and closed the Floo connection for the night. He suddenly felt exhausted, having felt wide-awake just an hour before. This whole time he was so worried about Hermione finding out about Godric’s true identity, that he’d totally forgotten his ex-girlfriend could be as cunning as any Slytherin as well. He trusted Ginny not to say anything, but he still felt like a prat. 

“Come on, Draco, time for bed,” Harry sighed wearily. Ginny had given him rather a lot to think about. Could she be right? It wasn’t as if Harry didn’t know that he was completely obtuse when it came to romance. It just wasn’t something he thought about too often. But the idea that Ginny could be right, that he could have feelings for Draco Malfoy, given their acrimonious (to put it mildly) past, well, surely that was just laughable… right? 

*

_Harry was lying on this sofa, with the TV on and blasting out some mindless film he wasn’t really paying attention to. Draco was curled up on his chest, stretching and flexing his paws in that way he did when he was totally relaxed, staring at him with those captivating silver eyes._

_“Not long before you’re human again,” Harry said._

_“Meow,” said Draco. Harry reached out and began to stroke Draco- first his head, then his ears, under the chin, and along his back. It felt nice; relaxing, homely and familiar._

_Suddenly Draco the cat disappeared, and in its place, and squashing Harry slightly with the unexpected weight, was Draco the man: taut, and lean, his chest bare and pressed flush against Harry’s body. He was still wearing the red and gold collar. And Harry was still stroking his back, which was opening up a whole new world of sensation for him._

_“You’re such a good owner,” Draco purred. “Always so attentive to my needs. Allow me, Potter, to see to your needs now, however.” He reached down and licked Harry’s nipple (when had his shirt disappeared? It had been there seconds ago), and Harry gasped aloud, feeling his body respond to the completely new sensation. Draco obviously felt it too, for he chuckled: a deep, rumbling, masculine sound from his chest that somehow left a gentle vibration on Harry’s hyperaware skin._

_Draco began to lap at Harry’s skin, and not in that cat way of washing that Harry had become accustomed to over the last few weeks, but in a sensual, incredibly erotic way that left Harry wanton and covered in goose pimples, and oh, so aching now with desire._

_“Draco, please,” he said, not sure what, exactly, he was asking for. Draco seemed to get the hint, however; in a movement that was so quick it could only be described as pouncing, Draco’s mouth- hot, wet and very human- was pressed firmly against his, the tongue that had been lapping his skin was teasing against Harry’s own, and it was brilliant, amazing, fantastic, and a whole other load of adjectives that fired inside Harry’s brain at that moment. All that paled, however, when Draco’s hand slipped inside Harry’s boxers, gripping him fully and moving rhythmically._

_“Gods, Draco, fuck,” Harry panted. “Draco, Draco, Draco…”_

“…Draco, Draco, Draco,” Harry murmured in his sleep, before his eyes flew open, and he bolted upright in bed, sending a previously sleeping, and still thankfully very feline, Draco flying across the room. He shot Harry a very affronted look before climbing back onto the bed and curling back up to sleep, but Harry ignored him. 

That dream was new. Well, not the content so much- he’d woken up aroused and having to have one off at the wrist before being able to get back to sleep a few times in the past. But the person who had left him in this state was definitely new, and Harry didn’t know how he felt about that. There was certainly no denying his attraction to the blond, human Draco Malfoy in his dream, and Harry was quite sure he’d never dreamt about him in that way before. 

He was not going to wank over Draco Malfoy. He just wasn’t. Ignoring the fiery ache in his groin, he laid back down in bed, shut his eyes and hoped for sleep that he knew wouldn’t come. He opened his eyes again and sighed.

It was all Ginny’s fault, Harry surmised. This was just because of what she was talking about that evening. It had put the idea in his head, and this was simply his mind’s way of working through it, combined with the fact he hadn’t got laid in forever. But Harry couldn’t deny he had enjoyed it, and now, as he lay in the dark, staring up at the pitch black ceiling, all he could see in front of his eyes was glazed, sensual eyes, taught muscular chest and blond hair from his dream. His mind shifted, replacing the fantasy from his dream with a real-life image of Draco Malfoy, on an Auror stake-out last summer, hair tousled and wet with sweat, T-shirt damp and clinging to defined muscles, and he felt the waning arousal return with gusto. Oh bollocks. Harry was so, so screwed. 

Harry groaned and buried his face in the pillow. Why did this keep happening to him? Why did he keep having these epiphanies at the most ridiculous and inappropriate of moments? First he realises he’s gay in the middle of sex with his long-term girlfriend, then he discovers he’s apparently attracted to a man who is currently living in his house as a cat. Was there something wrong with him or something?

“Eleven days,” he said aloud into the darkness. “Eleven days in which to work all this out in my head, before Draco turns human again.” 

Somehow, Harry didn’t think it was going to be long enough.


	6. Part Six

Harry awoke fairly late in the morning the following day, feeling neither rested nor calm. He’d eventually fallen back asleep after his dream, but his subconscious was obviously preoccupied with his ex-girlfriend’s words, as his thoughts in sleep had been plagued by images of blond hair, a sharp jaw, and grey, piercing eyes. 

Eyes which belonged to, Harry reminded himself sharply, his current bed companion, who was still curled up in a fluffy ball and sleeping. It was almost impossible to associate the cat with the man, although, Harry had to admit, they did share many of the same mannerisms. The haughty, I’m-better-than-you glare being the main one. He smiled to himself at that, but mingled with it was a feeling of unease; in ten days’ time, Draco the cat was going to be replaced by Draco the man, and Harry honestly didn’t know how he felt about that. Especially after certain revelations from the previous night. 

It was as if his mind was a lock box filled with thoughts inaccessible to him, and to which Ginny had held the key, and now it had been open, a bunch of crap that Harry wasn’t entirely sure he was ready for came pouring out. How could he have not known he was attracted to Draco? A man who, until very recently, he thought had simply irritated the piss out of him? Was there something structurally wrong with his brain, or something? Had sharing part of his mind with an insane megalomaniac for the better part of two decades caused the part of his brain that understood romance and attraction to simply curl up in a ball and die?

And the worst part of this was, Harry realised, was that Draco almost certainly now knew how he felt. Because he’d been right there, in the room, when Ginny had uttered those bombshell words: _You fancy the pants off him_. Which wasn’t going to be awkward at all. 

Harry was as certain as he could be that Draco was understanding language. Well, he didn’t think that the cat was capable of understanding the complete works of Shakespeare again just yet, but Draco did seem to have a good enough grasp of conversation to understand what was going on. At the beginning of this whole mess, back when Draco had first been cursed, Harry was sure that, for all intents and purposes, he was a cat, with no hint of the man within. There was very little human about him in those first few days. But as time moved on and the date for his return to his human state drew nearer, Harry had become more and more sure that his own mind was returning amongst the feline instincts. And he’d almost definitely understood the conversation from the previous night, which opened up a whole other can of weirdness. Because even if Harry did, apparently, have a crush on his Auror partner, Human Draco had never given Harry any indication that he felt anything in terms of attraction for him. At least, Harry didn’t think he had. Apparently he wasn’t very good at spotting things like that. Admittedly, the cat had shown him nothing but affection, but that was most likely due to the fact that Harry was the one taking care of him, rather than some expression of romantic feelings that human Draco held for him. And even on the off chance that his feelings- whatever the fuck they were- were, indeed, reciprocated, what did Harry want to do about it? And what if they did _fancy the pants_ off each other, get together, have it all go tits up, and still have to somehow work together? What if-

Harry suddenly cut off all thought, groaned aloud and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He felt a headache beginning to brew, and his left eye socket was starting to pound. That was a lot of pondering, for someone who had been awake all of twenty minutes and apparently had the emotional range of a teaspoon, as Hermione would no doubt say. One step, one insane problem at a time, he decided. But first coffee. Yes, he thought, the world would all seem better with coffee.

*

The world didn’t seem better with coffee as it turned out, but it did give Harry a much needed caffeine hit which, combined with a long, lengthy shower in which he tried- and failed miserably- to ignore his vivid dream from the previous night (resulting in him finally giving in to his craving body and seeing to the ‘problem’ in what seemed to be record time), had the desired effect of waking him up fully. He made sure Draco was outside the bedroom while he dressed, suddenly extremely grateful he’d always insisted on their mutual modesty during this strange month of them living together. He made an early lunch for him and Draco, having slept through breakfast, and sat down at the kitchen table, chewing his mouthful of whatever the bloody hell it was he’d made without tasting it at all, his mind distracted by Draco once more. 

After lunch he tried to take his mind off things with some telly, but every blond head, every pair of grey eyes… oh fuck it, every _man_ on the screen reminded Harry of Draco. How could he have been so blind, he asked himself for what felt like the billionth time. Part of him refused to accept he was a total imbecile and wondered if Ginny had been wrong, he hadn’t had feelings, and she had simply planted the idea that wouldn’t sod off in his brain. But Harry strongly suspected that wasn’t the case, that he was indeed simply an oblivious moron, and even if it was the case, it still didn’t detract from the fact that he was attracted to Malfoy now- a realisation that still had him feeling like he was suspended above the ground on a large helium balloon and just waiting for someone to come along and pop it, no doubt sending him tumbling headfirst into a pool of crocodile-infested water. It was dangerous, and possibly unwelcome, but Harry couldn’t deny that it was still exciting. And completely and utterly terrifyingly alien to him. He wished he could talk to Ron and Hermione about it rather than just his ex-girlfriend, but the whole, ‘my cat is Draco Malfoy and I fancy him. The man, not the cat, I’m not a perverted deviant’ just wasn’t going to end well. 

He watched an advert for a Muggle confectionary called ‘Milky Bar’ and when he thought the cartoon kid advertising it looked like it could be his and Draco’s son, what with the blond hair and round glasses, he realised he really needed to turn the telly off and go outside with the real-life people. Now. He stood up abruptly, dumping a grumpy-looking Draco (who had been, as always, asleep on his lap) onto the floor, grabbed his coat and threw the door to Grimmauld Place open, before stepping into the biting February weather. Maybe he’d go and see Ginny, and she could tell him how long he’d been sexually attracted to Draco bloody Malfoy for, because he was buggered if he knew. 

*

Harry had given way too much thought to Draco Malfoy over the week’s recuperation he had. He’d tried to keep busy and had seen his friends, had dinner at the Weasleys’, and cleaned his house from top to bottom Muggle-style, but it was always at the back of his mind. As he prepared to return to work the following morning, he was sure of one thing. He’d definitely fallen for Draco, somehow or other. And he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Returning to the Ministry on the eleventh of February, just four days before Draco’s return to human form, certainly wasn’t helping to take Harry’s mind off things. There were reminders of his Auror partner everywhere: his favourite mug- the one with built-in charm that began to yell if the contents got too cold- in the cupboard, his half empty packet of real Brazilian ground filter coffee (“You don’t seriously expect me to drink that instant swill, do you, Potter, you utter plebeian?”), and the desk in his cubicle, perfectly neat almost to the point of obsessive, with separate drawers for each type of stationery and arranged according to both size and colour, his files coded and cross-referenced with little sticky dots which obviously meant something to the human Draco Malfoy. 

Harry smiled at each of these things, took his cup of utter plebeian instant coffee to his own- incredibly scruffy- desk, spent ten minutes searching for the file he was looking for, another five rummaging in his drawers for a quill which didn’t have the tip broken off from,then sat down to drink his now too-cold coffee. He began to read the file- which was on the case he and Auror Fairweather had been working on when Harry was hurt, taking notes where necessary, and writing up his report for Robards. It was incredibly dull. Harry couldn’t wait until the following week when he and Draco would be back out in the field together. He’d given up trying to convince himself he only wanted Malfoy back because they worked well together, and he was certainly looking forward to Malfoy’s return, but there was a definite note of sadness there too; Harry couldn’t deny he was going to miss having a cat around the place. 

It was going to be incredibly quiet once Draco had moved back to the Manor with his parents. Harry had, despite himself, enjoyed his month with a cat and, feelings for Draco aside, he wasn’t sure he could go back to being the only heartbeat in the house again. It had been nice, coming home and having someone there pleased to see him, someone to share his evenings with, and the house was once again going to feel rather soulless with just him in it. Realising that he’d read the same paragraph three times, and he still didn’t have a clue what it was about, Harry quickly gulped another mouthful of cold coffee and forced himself to concentrate. 

He had lunch with Ron in the Ministry canteen and was joined by Hermione, who’d come up from MLE, halfway through. Harry even caught a glimpse of Jacqueline; she stared at him with narrowed eyes. Harry gave her a small wave which was dripping with sarcasm, and returned to his lunch.

“You’re awfully quiet, Harry, are you sure you’re ready to be back at work?” said Hermione.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied. Then deciding his friends could at least know part of the truth, said, “Er, Godric is going back on Tuesday. I’ve decided not to keep him.” Those lying words hurt a lot more than he’d expected them to.

“Are you barmy?” Ron said, not bothering to keep his voice down and causing a table full of people from Magical Games and Sports to turn around and stare at them. “You love that bloody animal!”

“I know,” Harry said. “But I’m out for a lot of the day, and he needs company. It’s not fair to him.”

“Are you sure about this, Harry?” said Hermione, taking his hand. “You do seem extremely fond of him.”

“He has to go, and that’s final,” Harry replied, a little harsher than he meant to. “Sorry. Look, I just can’t keep him, he has to leave, and can that be the end of it please?”

“All right, mate,” Ron said doubtfully, before shovelling another forkful of linguini into his mouth. Hermione didn’t say anything but was giving him a weird look- her ‘there’s something you’re not telling us’ look which made Harry feel uneasy. She simply gave him a small nod. Harry pushed the rest of his chicken pie away, untouched. His stomach was in knots, and he suddenly didn’t feel much like eating. 

There was always the possibility, Harry thought later on that afternoon when he was not reading the report he was supposed to be annotating (again), that Draco would return to normal and have no recollection of the previous month. Harry didn’t know what he would do in that situation- an irate and confused Malfoy who couldn’t recall the last month of his life and was for some reason in Harry’s house wasn’t exactly appealing. He could hear Malfoy’s voice in his head now: _Care to explain, Potter, why the bloody fuck I am trapped inside your hovel of a home, wandless?_ Harry shuddered. He really hoped Draco would remember the past month. At least remember his kindness, and how Harry had looked after him, anyway, because Harry knew that whatever happened (or didn’t happen) between them, this month had irrevocably changed their relationship, both professional and personal, and pretending otherwise was sure to send Harry batty. 

*

Harry spent his final night with Draco as a cat by cooking them both a nice dinner of fillet steak (it was Draco’s first meal as a cat, so Harry thought it was symbolic), with added salad for Harry. He didn’t think Kingsley was going to miss the additional cost to the annual Ministry budget. Kingsley had been to see him that afternoon to thank Harry and pass on a message to Draco to see him and Robards at once at the Ministry, as soon as he was human again, and had told him, with a slight accusation in his tone, that the bill for keeping Draco had come to about two hundred Galleons: a small fortune. Harry refused to feel guilty about that, however, as he seared two thick, juicy steaks to perfection and set them aside to rest whilst he made the salad. He was determined to enjoy his meal; it was most likely going to be cheese on toast for him the following evening without having Draco’s fussiness to cater for.

“Tuck in,” he said to Draco, cutting the steak into smaller chunks and setting them down on a saucer in front of him. “I wonder what you’ll be having tomorrow night. Something delicious cooked by your house-elves, no doubt. That includes vegetables.”

“Meow,” said Draco softly, and began to devour his steak heartily. 

After dinner, Harry washed up quickly, took a few photos of Draco on his ‘final’ night to go with the others he’d taken over the past month, then began to bag up all the cat items in the house. He managed to fill a plastic bin bag with toys- hardly any of which had been used, as Draco much preferred to play with household junk like a ball of tin foil- which surprised him; he hadn’t realised he’d accumulated so much crap. Still, Harry thought the house looked emptier without them, which was ridiculous as a squeaky ball didn’t exactly take up much space. It was just his mind playing tricks. 

After all the cat paraphernalia had been collated, shrunken, and placed in a drawer in the kitchen, Harry made himself a mug of hot chocolate and slumped in his favourite armchair to watch a film. Predictably, Draco jumped onto his lap, purring and kneading his chest with his paws. Harry smiled fondly and scratched the cat’s head, until the purring stopped as Draco fell asleep. 

“Look at us,” Harry said to the sleeping cat. “It’s Valentine’s Day- Ron and Hermione are together, Ginny’s with her boyfriend, and I’m spending it with a bloody moggy.” He rubbed Draco’s ears. “I have to say, Draco, I’m looking forward to you returning. But I’m really going to miss you, you stupid furry git.” He jumped slightly when Draco licked his finger, and was quite certain it was a ‘me, too’.

Harry watched the end of his film, turned off the TV, then picked Draco up off his lap. 

“Bed,” he said. “C’mon, we’ve probably got an eventful day tomorrow.”

With that he left the room and climbed the stairs, for his last night with the creature whose human counterpart had apparently flipped his world. 

*

Harry stirred groggily from sleep, feeling pleasantly warm and comfortable. He was extremely unwilling to move from the blankets, but turned over, pulled the duvet up to his chin and closed his eyes again. He was working the weekend shift this week, so had the day off; no reason to hurry to wake up…

“Good morning, Potter.”

Harry’s eyes flew open and he scrambled for his glasses on his bedside table. He shoved them hastily onto his face, then spun around in the bed. 

Draco Malfoy, whole and human, was lying next to him, looking thoroughly relaxed. In his hand he was holding the collar that Harry had placed around his neck all those weeks ago, and was examining it with extreme distaste.

“Red and gold, Potter? Really?” Malfoy drawled. “As much as I’m sure it amused your tiny brain to dress me in Gryffindor colours, did it ever occur to you that such warm, fiery tones should not have been placed on an animal of my colouring? I’m sure ice blue, lilac or emerald would have been far more flattering to my white fur. Not that I’d expect a monolithic troglodyte like you to appreciate that, given your woeful fashion sense.”

Harry continued to stare, his mouth agape. He tried to speak, but found no words came. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Draco said, then laughed at his own joke. Harry simply blinked. Eventually he managed to say, “You’re human again.”

“Astute as ever I see, Potter,” Malfoy replied. “That’s what I’ve always deeply admired about you as an Auror: your observation skills.”

“You, um, remember it then? The last month I mean?” Harry said, wondering vaguely if this was all some weird dream and he hadn’t actually woken up yet. Malfoy gave him a look that plainly said, ‘obviously’. 

“If I didn’t Potter, I’d be asking you to explain why I was lying in your bed naked. Clearly I remember.”

Harry’s mouth went dry. Draco Malfoy was lying in his bed. Human. And without a scrap of clothing on. Oh Merlin. 

“Why are you naked?” he rasped. 

“I guess the spell didn’t supply clothing.” Draco’s voice was full of sarcasm. “I returned wearing only what I had on as a feline. Although you did nearly choke me with that fucking collar. I’m glad it has a safety clasp on it, which popped open once my neck swelled.”

“I thought it was going to be later this morning you returned,” Harry said, trying desperately to draw his thoughts away from where they were straying. “You know, around eleven. That’s when you were hit with the spell.”

“Apparently not,” Malfoy said, one eyebrow raised. “Still, this way was rather more fun, don’t you think? This way you get to finally wake up with a man in your bed.”

Harry felt his face flame. Draco plainly remembered Harry’s words. Which wasn’t good. At all. He opened his mouth to say something, but Draco did the last thing he was expecting. He leant over and kissed Harry on the lips. 

It was only a brief, closed-mouth kiss, one that lasted mere seconds, but as Malfoy pulled away, Harry could feel his lips tinging. It would have been enough to turn him on, Harry had no doubt about that, had he not been so completely and utterly confused. 

“Not only have you now woken up with a man, but you kissed him in the morning, too,” Malfoy smirked, looking far too pleased with himself, and Harry wondered what the bloody hell he was playing at. 

“Um, breakfast,” he stammered, tossing back the duvet and leaping out of bed. I’ll meet you downstairs in the kitchen. You, um, remember the way? Of course you do. Take what you want from my wardrobe to wear, if there’s something you don’t find completely horrible, that is.” He said all this very quickly, not looking at Malfoy once, then all but sprinted to his bedroom door, flung it open, and rand down the stairs. He could hear Malfoy’s soft chuckle coming from the bedroom as he did so. 

Harry put the kettle on the stove to boil and pulled the jar of Nescafé out of the cupboard, then, remembering Malfoy’s tastes at work, put it back and opted for the unopened packet of filter he’d bought about six months ago after he’d received a coffee filter from Percy for his birthday. He dug the unused item out of a cupboard, pulled the packaging off, added the number of teaspoonfuls of coffee that the packet recommended, and poured on boiling water. He realised his hands were shaking slightly. Draco came downstairs while it was brewing, dressed in a pair of Harry’s jeans and a warm grey jumper, which, Harry thought, looked a lot better on Draco than it did on him. He still looked incredibly smug as he entered, but, as his eyes fell onto the still set-up litter tray (Harry had thought it might have been needed in the morning), his face fell and a vivid red colour flooded his cheeks. It was Harry’s turn to laugh. 

“Yep, that was your toilet,” Harry replied happily, pouring a large mug of coffee for Draco. “I even saw you using it a few times.”

It was Draco’s turn to flush, and stammer, and gape, and Harry relished in it. Everything was much clearer now Draco was a human once more. This was what Harry wanted. Well, not exactly this awkwardness, but this banter, the little power-shifts, and the good-natured joshing. Harry really, really wanted to be the one to cause Draco Malfoy to lose his usual poise and composure. 

“Where is my wand, Potter?” Draco asked. Harry, still grinning like a lunatic, went into the living room and pulled Draco’s wand from the dresser. He returned, handing it to him.

“ _Evanesco_!” Draco cried loudly, almost as soon as the wand was in his hand. The litter tray promptly disappeared. He then repeated the spell on the open bag of litter, blasting both into nonexistence. “Never mention that again, Potter,” Draco said, drawing the cup to his lips. He drank deeply, passing no comment on its lack of quality, so Harry took that to mean it had met Draco’s standards. 

“Breakfast?” Harry said, pulling a thick white sliced loaf out of the breadbin. Draco winced. 

“Do you have to eat that refined carbohydrate rubbish? Don’t you have a loaf of multigrain wholemeal? Or, better yet, rye?”

Harry sighed. There were obviously a lot more that this Draco shared with his feline form in addition to a piercing glare. 

“No,” he replied shortly. “Just be thankful I’m serving it to you at the table, from a proper china plate, rather than making you eat it off the floor.” He grinned in victory as Draco’s blush returned, and stood up to begin frying some bacon. 

He served them both bacon sandwiches (in white bread) and was amused to note that Draco devoured his in all of four bites with a look of pleasure, despite his moaning about the bread. Harry smiled fondly at this difficult, impossible man, trying to ignore the feeling of Snitches fluttering in his stomach.

After breakfast, Harry remembered Kingsley’s message from yesterday, and reluctantly passed it on, informing Draco that he was expected to meet with the Minister for Magic and Head of the Auror Office that morning. Draco paled slightly at this, no doubt expecting some sort of bollocking, but otherwise looked composed and simply nodded his head. 

“I should probably go soon and speak with my parents anyway,” he said, and the fact that Draco was leaving, properly leaving, filled Harry with a cold dread. “By the way, how was my absence explained to them?”

“We told them you were working on a secret mission in Slovakia and was incommunicado for the month,” Harry said. “And everyone else thought you were ill with a severe bout of Spattergroit.” Draco looked scandalised at this, but said nothing. Instead he looked awkward then stood up. Harry mirrored him.

“Well, I guess I should…” Draco said.

“Um, yeah, OK.”

“I’ll return the clothes to you tomorrow at work, if I still have a job,” Draco said. “I’ll have the house-elves launder them.” 

“Right. No rush,” Harry said. 

“Yes, Potter, there is,” Draco replied. “They’re the only two decent items of clothing in your wardrobe.” He picked his wand up from the kitchen table and walked out to the living room, passing the hall on the way. “You need to do something about her,” he said, indicating Walburga Black’s portrait. “Insane old bat.”

“She’s your relative,” Harry laughed. “Um, see you at work, Draco.”

If Draco was surprised to hear Harry use his first name, he didn’t show it. Instead, a small flicker of uncertainly crossed his face. 

“Potter,” he said as he stopped by Harry’s fireplace, “this last month has been utterly peculiar for me. Being a… cat- well, it left me vulnerable, and Malfoys don’t like to show vulnerability. It could have been a month of extreme unpleasantness for me, and you made it not so. Thank you.” Then he held out his hand. 

The irony wasn’t lost on Harry, and the slight nervousness on Draco’s face meant it wasn’t on him, either. However, they weren’t eleven any longer, Draco wasn’t the same snotty nosed little bastard he had been then, and Harry had no hesitation in accepting his hand. He grasped it firmly in his, noting as he did so that it was warm, the skin soft. He forced himself to keep breathing normally. 

“Oh, by the way, can I keep this?” Draco said, pulling the Gryffindor collar from his pocket, and twisted it snakelike between his fingers. Harry’s face lit up into a true grin and he nodded. Draco offered a small but genuine smile in return.

“Bye,” he said finally. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, threw it into the flames, called, “The Ministry of Magic!” and disappeared. 

Harry stood, staring at the spot from which Draco had vanished, full of fresh determination. He’d never just walked away from a situation before, and he wasn’t about to start now. Because everything was suddenly so clear: he wanted Draco, and he was going to fight to have him, with everything he had to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next chapter will be the last.


	7. Part Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final part of this story. Thank you all for reading!

Harry spent the rest of the day between feeling determined with his new plan, mourning the loss of the cat, and being terrified at the possibility of losing Draco fully from his life, should he reject Harry’s advances, and make it impossible for them to work together. So it was something of a relief when Ron and Hermione paid him a visit just after dinner, as it gave him a reason for the first time since mid-morning to think about something other than his current situation. Or so he thought it would be, anyway; a thought that was very quickly dispelled. 

“We wanted to make sure you were OK,” Hermione said, as soon as she stepped through the fireplace and before she’d even removed her gloves and scarf. “Godric went back today, didn’t he?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry said, somewhat evasively. It was a dangerous topic that Harry really didn’t want to go into, in too much depth. However, his mood must have come across as upset, rather than simply offhanded as he was going for, as both his friends looked on at him in sympathy. Harry knew that his ‘decision’ to get rid of the cat had baffled his friends, and he was also aware that they hadn’t bought the ‘it’s just not working out’ excuse for a second. 

“When did he leave?” Hermione pressed. Harry wished she wouldn’t.

“Um, he went mid-morning,” he answered truthfully, glad that not everything he told his best friends had to be a lie. 

“Don’t worry, mate,” Ron said. “It’s not all doom and gloom.I’ve got some news that will cheer you up. You will be back out in the field next week, at least- I saw Malfoy leaving Robard’s office at lunchtime, and he looked back to normal- not a single scar from the Spattergroit anywhere on him. Reckon he’ll be at work in the morning.”

Harry heard Hermione give a small squeak, and closed his eyes and sighed deeply. _There it is, cat well and truly out of the bag,_ he thought wryly. He’d have given anything- _anything_ \- for Ron to have not uttered those words. Harry could practically hear Hermione’s brain working, fitting the pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle. The fact that the cat had conveniently arrived as soon as Malfoy took sick leave from work. And that it left the day Malfoy had made his reappearance. Those damn captivating grey eyes that Hermione had commented on in both the human and feline Malfoy. It was all just too much of a coincidence.

“Harry, why don’t I help you make coffee?” Hermione said, standing and all but dragging Harry out of the room. Ron, oblivious, kicked off his shoes, grabbed the TV remote and began to channel hop, as he loved to do. He wouldn’t notice a thing was amiss between his fiancée and his best friend. Harry winced; Hermione had him by the metaphorical balls here. 

She frogmarched him to the kitchen, then threw up an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door. 

“Malfoy?!” she yelled. “That- that animal was Draco Malfoy?!”

There was no point denying it. Harry nodded slowly. Hermione’s lips went extremely thin. 

“I think you need to explain this from the beginning, Harry,” she said, and her tone had that slightly scary edge to it which always seemed to make Harry obey.

“Malfoy is an unregistered Animagus,” he said, and Hermione’s eyebrows almost disappeared into her bushy hair. “No! Not like that. He’s not breaking the law. Kingsley knows. And so do I. We have done for ages. And now so does Robards. And, um, Ginny. And you. His own parents don’t even know. And you can’t tell Ron. I’m really sorry about that.”

“Ginny knows?” Hermione said. Harry opened his mouth, but she cut him off with an impatient wave of her hand. “No, explain that in a minute. Tell me more.”

“Being unregistered means that he’s been able to gather vital information in his Animagus form, without anyone becoming suspicious. It’s led to some extremely important arrests. Remember that case last year, where that Muggle had to be admitted to St Mungo’s with those strange runes burnt all over their body? It was Malfoy’s evidence that secured the conviction,” Harry said, filled suddenly with pride for his Auror partner and current star of his fantasises. No, he told himself, this is not the time for those sort of thoughts. 

“OK, so he’s an unregistered Animagus, working with you,” Hermione said. “That doesn’t explain what he was doing living in your house as a cat for a month.”

“It was the Brockway and Peterson case,” Harry continued, putting a kettle on the stove to actually make coffee, thinking that, as unobservant as Ron could be, even he would notice if they came back without any. “We had somewhat of a monumental cockup with that one.” He explained about the old lady and the RSPCA, how Kingsley was getting more and more frustrated with the pair of them, and how this had led to them taking risks to make headway. He told her about getting cornered in the greenhouse, Malfoy’s attempts to get out, Brockway realising he was an Animagus and the subsequent spell cast by Peterson, which hit Malfoy and trapped him in feline form for a month. 

“Kingsley asked me to look after him,” Harry said. “So I have been. I always knew it was only temporary.” He realised as he said it that he’d sounded sad, and Hermione had clearly picked up on it too, for she was giving Harry a very odd look.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes full of sympathy. “You’ll fallen for him, haven’t you?” She took the kettle off the stove and poured boiling water into the three mugs she’d gathered.

“Why do women keep asking me that?” Harry said. “Yes, alright? I have. I know it’s not ideal, but the month away from him- human him anyway- has made me really, really miss him, and appreciate what I’d lost, then Ginny pointed out I fancied him, and it was like she’s flicked on a light switch in my brain and woken me up to something, as everything suddenly made sense.” He sighed deeply. “And now I can’t get him out of my bloody mind.”

He explained quickly about Ginny, and how she’d found out about Malfoy. To her credit, Hermione didn’t laugh. 

“Are you going to do anything about it?” Hermione asked gently, as she rummaged through Harry’s cupboards, looking for biscuits. She found a packet of Pink Panther wafers, held them out to him with a grin on her face, and said, “Harry, why on earth do you have these?”

“They’re Teddy’s, for when he comes over,” Harry lied. Hermione’s lips thinned again. “Fine. They taste nice and I like them,” he said defensively. “And, er, yeah, I thought I might. You know, go for it.” He didn’t know how Hermione- or Ron, when he found out- would feel about that. Malfoy had not exactly been friendly towards them over the years, after all, and there was that rather nasty business that took place during their sixth year at Hogwarts. But it was years since school, Ron and Draco worked reasonably well together in the Auror Office, and Draco had even been polite, if somewhat formal and stiff, with Hermione on the few occasions they’d interacted at work. “Is that OK with you?”

Hermione did laugh then. 

“Harry, you’re twenty-four years old. You don’t need my- or anybody else’s- permission on whom to date,” she said. 

“I know. But Draco has said some vile things to you over the years,” Harry replied. 

“We’re not thirteen any more. He’s grown up. We all have,” Hermione said. “Besides, you could never have fallen for him if he still was how he was at school. And I meant what I said the other week- we, Ron and I, we just want you to be happy, Harry. If Malfoy is that person to make you happy, then OK. We don’t have to like him. We’re not the ones who want to date him. And I trust your judgement, Harry.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, and before he knew what was happening, Hermione had pulled him into a hug. “But, what about Ron-”

“You leave Ronald to me,” Hermione said, with a wicked glint in her eye that made Harry think of bets involving female oral sex as winnings and felt the last dismal, pathetic flicker of any lingering heterosexuality shrivel up and die. “It will be fine. I promise.”

*

For the first time in months, Harry awoke the following morning feeling actually excited to go to work. He took a much longer than usual shower, spent extra time on his hair (not that it looked in the slightest bit tidier), and even bothered to iron a shirt to wear under his Auror robes. He threw down some breakfast, followed by about half a carton of orange juice, then jumped into the fireplace and travelled to the Ministry. 

The disappointment he felt when he arrived and saw Malfoy’s desk was empty was crushing, and almost felt like a physical blow to his gut. It was only once he’d made himself a coffee and had sat himself down at his desk, scowling, that he realised no one else was in the office yet, except three house-elves who were cleaning the building and an extremely tired-looking Auror who had been on the night shift, because he was an hour early for work. 

“Bugger,” he said to himself, as he felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. Merlin, he had it bad, if he was arriving at work before eight in the morning in his excitement to see the object of his affections. He passed the hour, which actually felt like a week, before the other Aurors (those not nursing ridiculous crushes that compelled them to arrive at work at stupid o’clock, that was) arrived by catching up on the paperwork he should have completed before now, but had somehow got shoved to the bottom of his never-ending pile. 

He actually managed to get a lot completed, and indeed had submerged himself so fully that he almost jumped out of his skin when a cool hand touched him lightly on the shoulder and said, “No bunting? No balloons? No quartet of goblins waiting around my desk to sing me a welcome back sonnet?”

Harry bit back his smile, knowing his blond former Slytherin was only half-joking. He looked up then, and somehow managed to school his features into one of indifference. No one should look that good in standard issue work robes. 

“Sorry, Malfoy,” he said. “But I don’t think anyone even noticed you weren’t here, to tell you the truth.”

“Bollocks they didn’t,” Draco said with a raised eyebrow. “I’m extremely noticeable.”

_ You’re telling me _ , Harry thought wryly. Instead he forced himself to look back down at his paperwork.

“Whatever you say, Draco.”

He noticed Ron walk in then, who shot him a look that couldn’t have said, ‘Hermione has talked to me and I have to be nice’ any clearer if it was printed across his forehead in fluorescent ink. It didn’t stop Harry receiving an intradepartmental memo just before morning break with the words _Are you fucking MENTAL?_ written on it in violently purple ink, with the word mental underlined four times. Harry simply grinned over at Ron, mouthed, ‘Probably’ back at him, and returned to his report. It was all good; Ron didn’t hate him, even if he did think his choice in men was diabolical. 

After lunch Robards called Harry and Draco into his office and commanded- not asked- them to sit. 

“I have an assignment for you, boys,” he said, brushing a speck of invisible dirt off the breast of his robes. Harry ignored the slur at being addressed as ‘boy’, something which always reminded him of Vernon Dursley and made him feel about nine years old, not the man of nearly twenty-five that he actually was, and allowed the ripple of excitement at receiving his first mission in weeks to overtake instead. “I’m dispatching you to Stratford-Upon-Avon. Some joker thought it was hilarious to charm a bust of Shakespeare in the Birthplace Museum to yell expletives at people as they walked past. I’m sending Amelia Kent from Misuse of Muggle Artefacts with you, I and expect you to wrap up the case by this afternoon.” Which, Harry translated, meant, ‘I don’t give a flying fuck about this, and it’s a waste of my time’. Harry sighed. For once, he could empathise with Robards. It was a rookie assignment, the type of assignment he undertook as a first year trainee Auror, not an established senior-ish Auror in line for a promotion in the coming months. Harry knew Robards had given it to him and Draco as some sort of punishment, and one look at Draco’s face said he wasn’t fooled for a second, either. Still, it meant they would at least get out of the Ministry for a few hours. With Malfoy. Which had to be good. 

*

He and Draco spent a grand total of two hours on the assignment- forty minutes to establish there were no Dark spells involved and was therefore not a case for the Aurors, a further forty on low-level Memory Charms on the Muggles who had heard the bust shouting, and the remainder of the time writing up the report- slowly- whilst drinking cappuccino and eating carrot cake in the museum tea room. They then found a quiet place from which to Apparate, and returned to the Ministry. 

It had been great, Harry thought, as he returned to his desk for the remainder of his shift. OK, so the case was hardly Batman or Superman worthy, but it had got him out of the office and London and into the English countryside for a couple of hours, and he was back working in the field with Malfoy again. Not that it was Malfoy’s Auror skills that had impressed him this afternoon, mind. No, Harry mused, it had been the way his Muggle black Levi’s- which he had adopted for their visit into the Muggle world- had clung to his arse and showed off his long legs fully. Malfoy wasn’t much taller than Harry, and certainly not what someone would call a tall man, but the clothes made him look long and lean and altogether rather shaggable. 

“So, did you tell your parents you’re an Animagus?” Harry asked casually, simply to say something because they had been far too quiet for too long and it was driving him insane. Draco snorted. 

“Father already thinks I’m a distasteful abomination. I decided long ago not to share any details about my private life with them in future, so, no, I didn’t.”

“Your dad thinks you’re an abomination because you’re _gay_?” Harry said, shocked. Draco began to laugh, and it was a dry, humourless laugh which carried some self- depreciation to it; something Harry had never heard in Draco’s voice before. 

“Oh, Potter, you idiotic fool. Father couldn’t care less who I take to my bed. No, I’m an abomination because I joined the Aurors.” 

Harry felt his mouth fell open. He forced it closed before Draco could start making jokes about him catching flies. 

“’An Auror is not a fitting career for a Malfoy, Draco’,” Draco said, in an uncannily accurate impression of his father. “’I didn’t raise you to be a puppet for the Ministry and to put yourself in danger in order to save Muggles, Mudbloods, and blood traitors’. Honestly, Potter, sometimes I swear he forgets we were actually on the losing side of the war, and fucking lucky to escape with our freedom. If he found out I’m an Animagus, and change into an ordinary, common domestic cat rather than something regal like a snow leopard, or an eagle or something, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“I liked you as a cat,” Harry said, before he could stop himself, then gave himself a mental slap. Draco, however, simply smiled at him: a warm, genuine smile that carried no hint of a sneer. It was warm, and friendly, and Harry couldn’t look away even if he’d wanted to.

“I know.”

Those two words made Harry feel tingly all over. It was time. He was going to do it. He was going to ask out Draco Malfoy. 

“Draco, I-” he began, but that was as far as he got, because Robards had just bellowed, “Malfoy! In here, now!” and the moment was lost. Paling slightly but standing immediately, Draco schooled his face into the cool indifference Harry recognised from years ago and disappeared into Robard’s office. He emerged twenty minutes later with a large stack of parchment, which he dumped unceremoniously onto his desk. 

“Bastard wants me to work late,” Draco said. “Apparently, I owe him, and he wants this-” Draco indicated the stack “-all completed before I can leave. Arsehole. He just wants to go home and can’t be bothered to do it himself, the lazy prick.” He scowled and sat down with a ‘humph’, then pulled the stack of paperwork towards him, grabbed a quill and ink pot, and began to write furiously. Harry sighed. He’d have to try again tomorrow. 

“Night, Draco,” he said, standing himself now and grabbing his winter cloak. “Don’t work too hard.”

He felt slightly aggrieved as he made his way to the Floo. 

*

Harry didn’t, as it turned out, manage to ask Draco out at any other point that week, and by the time the weekend arrived he was feeling mad at himself. He’d chickened out once, and hadn’t had the opportunity for the rest of the time, as he was finally back out in the field properly. Harry didn’t think a quick, “Hey, Draco, fancy dinner with me sometime?” was appropriate when attending the scene of a crime. 

On Saturday morning, Harry collected Teddy from Andromeda’s and took him to London Zoo. He gave the boy lunch at Grimmauld Place (making a point to give him some of the pink wafer biscuits Hermione had laughed at), then dropped him home before grabbing a few hours’ sleep before his night shift began. The Saturday Night Shift was infamous amongst the Aurors for being the most loathed of all shifts, and was a full twelve hours from seven till seven. Luckily they only each had to do it once every three months, as they worked on a rota, but that didn’t stop Harry dreading it. They had to stay within the Ministry, answering emergency owls from the public where necessary, complete outstanding paperwork and, if that was all up to date, they were expected to use the rest of their time ‘in a manner productive to the overall department’ which, Harry thought, meant ‘tidy up everyone else’s shit’. The shift always dragged, and Harry wouldn’t even have Draco for company as they didn’t work with their partners on this shift. He’d worked with Ron once, and that had been an OK night, but they’d not drawn the same shift again in over two years, and tonight, Harry remembered with a groan, he was working with Alexandra Fairweather, the Auror he’d been partnered with when he’d been injured and ended up in St Mungo’s. Oh, wonderful. 

Harry spent an awkward and rather silent night with Alexandra, and received only one call-out, to a very old and slightly senile witch who had owled the Aurors when she couldn’t find her keys. Harry gave her the standard Ministry lecture about wasting Auror time but did Summon the keys for her, before helping her place them in a safe drawer. He spent long, tedious hours doodling on scrap sheets of parchment and making origami birds which he charmed to fly around the office, before the large clock in the Atrium finally chimed seven and he breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was a full three months before he’d have to suffer this again. He and Fairweather handed over to the day team, said a stiff and very uncomfortable goodbye to one another, then Harry stepped into the fireplace, exited the Floo from his fireplace in his bedroom, threw on a tatty pair of tracksuit bottoms and all but fell into bed. He was snoring softly within seconds. 

*

A loud knocking at the door roused him from a deep sleep, in which he was dreaming he was playing Quidditch on the back of Buckbeak. He tried to ignore it, but the knocking was insistent so he grabbed his glasses, hauled himself out of bed, slung on his dressing gown and padded down the stairs. He threw the door open.

“What the fu-” he began, then stopped in his tracks. Draco was at the door, dressed impeccably in a full length leather coat in a rich shade of charcoal, teamed with black woollen trousers and dragon hide boots. Around his neck was a black cashmere scarf, and not a hair was out of place on his head, despite the harsh February wind and the fact it was snowing. He looked absolutely stunning, and for a few seconds, Harry thought he forgot how to breathe. Draco looked Harry up and down once, and gave him a crooked smile, eyebrow raised. Harry was suddenly incredibly aware he was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms with holes in them, there was Weetabix dried onto his dressing gown, and that he was wearing a pair of socks from which his big toe protruded through the material. He was also unshaven, and his hair was in an even greater mess than usual. Compared to Draco, Harry thought he looked like a tramp. 

“Er, come in,” he said, unsteadily. Draco stepped into the hallway and removed his scarf and coat, hanging them on the coat stand. He was just as stylishly tailored underneath the coat; Harry may not know a great deal about fashion, but he knew enough to know that the jumper and shirt Draco was wearing would cost more than the entire contents of his wardrobe combined. Draco was still looking at his clothes, amusement flittering across his face.

“Nice outfit, Potter,” he drawled. “You do realise, don’t you, that it’s eleven in the morning, and at this time of day, civilised people are out of their sleepwear and ready to go about their business? You look like you’ve just crawled out of bed.”

“I have just crawled out of bed,” Harry said, feeling annoyed. “You woke me up. I was on the night shift last night, remember?”

At this, Harry was satisfied to see a faint pink grace Draco’s cheeks, and a slightly abashed look touch his eyes. Obviously he had forgotten. “Coffee?” Harry offered, his anger with Draco disappearing as quickly as it had come. 

He went into the kitchen and made coffee, then brought two mugs out. Draco was still standing in the hallway, staring at the painting of Walburga Black. 

“Why do you have this hideous painting in your home?” he asked, staring at the currently silent portrait. Harry was suddenly reminded of Draco in his cat form, hissing at it in fear. He grinned. 

“You know this house used to belong to the Blacks,” he said, “well, this portrait has been stuck to the wall with a Permanent Sticking Charm.”

“Yes, I know that, Potter but my question is why is she still up here?” Draco replied.

“Because,” Harry repeated slowly, as if talking to a child, “it’s stuck to the bloody wall.”

“The frame is,” Draco said. “But _she_ isn’t. And I’m here to save you from this insane old bat once and for all.”

Harry was sure he was missing something here. He’d tried everything: every charm, counter-charm and curse he could think of, and short of knocking down the wall (which would probably lead to the entire house collapsing if he tried) he didn’t know what else to do.

“I’m not trying anything illegal,” he said uncertainly. Draco began to laugh out loud. 

“Prat,” he said. “Look, if you repeat what I’m about to say, I will have you killed, mark my words. But on occasion, and it is rare, Muggles outsmart wizards. Pure-bloods like the Blacks would not have been aware of Muggle methods, and there is in fact a very simple solution to this.” He reached into the black bag he’d brought in with him and pulled out an old cloth… and a can of paint stripper. A feral smile crossed his lips. “I’m quite certain that when my dear great-aunt had her portrait stuck to the wall that she had never envisioned something like this.” 

Harry watched, fascinated, as Draco unscrewed the can, decanted some of the paint stripper onto the cloth, and began to wipe at the portrait. The paint from the frame instantly disappeared where the paint stripper touched it. Walburga had noticed what was happening; she began her usual shrieking, but it had a panicked edge to it that Harry had never heard before. He wondered if paintings could feel pain. 

“Oh do shut up, you fucking old hag,” Draco said, and wiped the rag across Walburga’s mouth, erasing it from existence and instantly, and permanently, silencing her. Draco’s face shone with triumph, and Harry found he couldn’t look away from this strong, clever, sarcastic, beautiful man, who was currently standing in his hallway, and removing the last remnant of the House of Black from his home. 

It took Draco thirty minutes to remove the entire portrait from its frame. The coffee Harry had made lay long-forgotten on the table. 

“What do you think?” Draco said, re-capping the paint stripper and replacing it back in his bag, gesturing to the now empty frame. Harry stared at him, his mind whirring with about fifty questions. 

“Why are you here, Draco?” he said eventually. 

“That painting gave me the creeps,” Draco said. “It needed to go.”

“No. That’s not it. You’re not here on a Sunday morning just to remove a painting that you never had to see again. Try again. Why are you here, right now?”

They simply stared at each other for a long moment. Harry’s mouth was dry. Eventually, Draco said softly, “Was Ginny Weasley right?”

Harry didn’t need Draco to elaborate. It was plainly obvious what he was referring to. _You fancy the pants off him_. He took a deep breath. This was it. He forced himself to look Draco fully in the eye, and hold his gaze as he uttered one short, but possibly life-altering word.

“Yes.”

Draco’s hard stare instantly softened, stealing the breath from Harry’s lungs with it.

“Then that is why I came,” Draco said, his voice barely louder than a whisper now. 

Harry felt his eyes widen in shock, and then he wasn’t feeling anything except an exquisite jolt of searing pleasure as Draco stepped forwards, cupped Harry’s face in his hands, and pressed their mouths together. 

It was nothing like their brief kiss in Harry’s bed, the morning Draco returned to his human form. Draco’s lips were soft and pliant as they pushed against his own, and Harry began to return the kiss in earnest, opening his mouth to Draco as he threaded his fingers into Draco’s hair and pulled him close against him, unable to stop the sigh of pure, unadulterated happiness that escaped from his chest. This felt right, perhaps more right than anything had ever felt in the universe, ever. 

Draco nipped at Harry’s bottom lip lightly with his teeth, then soothed the slight sting with a lick from his tongue, and Harry melted. Aware that Draco was controlling the kiss, he fought back for control, pushing Draco against the hallway wall and pressing himself fully against Draco’s body. He was only wearing thin tracksuit bottoms, and Draco would undoubtedly be able to feel just exactly how much Harry was enjoying this, but he simply didn’t care. His skin was fire and ice; goose bumps had erupted all over his skin, feeling both overheated and far too cool at the same time, as he let his tongue slip into Draco’s mouth. He’d thought he’d enjoyed kissing Ginny. He now realised that he’d been an idiot. This kiss was so far off the scale from that, that anything he’d ever shared with another person simply ceased to exist in Harry’s mind. 

“Oh Merlin,” he heard Draco mutter against his lips. His voice sounded strained and throaty, and when he shifted against Harry, a jolt of electric desire shot down Harry’s spine as he realised that Draco was just as turned on as he was. He seized his courage and pressed his thigh between Draco’s legs suggestively, and was rewarded with a groan, which was the most wonderful sound Harry had ever heard.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me, Potter?” Draco rasped. “Twelve bloody months I’ve thought about this, never thought you’d want me back, and… oh, don’t fucking stop.”

The confession that sprung from Draco’s lips caused the last of Harry’s restraint to snap. With a growl, he began to kiss along Draco’s jawline and neck, fastening his mouth over the pulse point in Draco’s throat, and sucked a deep bruise into the flesh. He felt two hands snake into his hair and grip firmly, possessing him, and the shallow, uneven breathing Harry’s actions were producing from Draco was doing things to Harry’s body that only physical contact had ever done in the past. He didn’t think he’d ever felt like he could come without being touched before. With a final burst of courage, he reached down with one hand and began to massage Draco’s erection through his trousers. 

Draco sucked in his breath sharply, and the hands in Harry’s hair tightened considerably. “Shit.” Encouraged by this reaction, Harry doubled his efforts, pushing his own erection against Draco’s thigh, and stroking Draco through his woollen trousers with enthusiasm now.

“Potter,” Draco groaned, “if you keep doing that, I’m going to come.”

Harry stopped what he was doing then, and looked into Draco’s face. His pupils were dilated and had taken on an unfocused, drunk look, his mouth red and swollen, and a slight rash caused by Harry’s day- old stubble was ringing his lips. His cheeks were flushed and his hair was nowhere near impeccably neat any longer. Harry could feel Draco’s heartbeat racing against his own chest, could feel warm, panted breath against his cheek, and knew, undoubtedly, this was what he wanted. Draco Malfoy was beautiful. There were no other words Harry could think to describe him.

“Fuck, I want you,” he said. Draco’s eyes darted down towards Harry’s groin, where the evidence of just how much he wanted Draco was making itself obvious through the tracksuit bottoms, then trailed back up Harry’s body to meet his gaze once more. 

“Then have me,” he replied. Harry didn’t need any further invitation. Wordlessly, he took Draco’s hand and led him up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Harry closed the door as soon as he and Draco entered, and pushed Draco against it, kissing him furiously. Their kisses downstairs had been new, exploratory; now they were urgent, desperate. Harry felt his knees threaten to give way. He needed to lie down. He pulled Draco towards his bed, sank down onto the mattress, and pulled Draco on top of him. 

Oh, this was much better. Draco’s weight was pushing into him in all the right ways and Harry arched off the bed at the sensation of Draco’s erection pressing against his. Merlin, when they finally got going, Harry wasn’t going to last long at all, he thought, if a simple touch brought him this close. 

“Draco, you know I’ve never- with another bloke, I mean,” Harry said breathlessly, both from the weight of Draco pressing into him and his level of arousal. 

“I do,” Draco murmured into his ear, then nibbled on his earlobe. “It’s pretty fucking sexy, that I get to be the first person to make the great Harry Potter fall apart.” 

It was too much. Harry needed him, now. He didn’t particularly care what they did, or who put what where, as long as _something_ happened before he exploded and came into his pyjamas like some nervous teenager. He fumbled for his wand on the bedside table, fully intending to remove both their clothes, but a firm hand grasped his wrist.

“Don’t you dare Vanish this jumper,” Draco said. “It’s a Brunello Cucinelli and cost over five hundred Galleons.” He climbed off Harry and sat back on his heels. “You need to start treating luxury with respect.” He slowly, and very deliberately, pulled the jumper off his head, placing it carefully on the back of a chair. Then he began unbuttoning his shirt, all the time aware that Harry hadn’t taken his eyes off him once.

It was a sight Harry had seen before, and had always appreciated, but now it was as if it was the first time he’d ever seen Draco’s bare torso. Smooth, pale skin, toned muscles visible but not protruding too much, and the merest hint of a long since faded Mark on his left forearm. There was no evidence of the Sectumsempra incident of their sixth year, for which Harry was grateful. He reached up and ran his hands down Draco’s arms from shoulders to hands, resting on Draco’s fingers, which had moved to the fly of his trousers. Together they worked to release the button and pull down the zip, then Harry reached round and yanked the trousers and, for good measure, Draco’s underwear, down in one impatient pull.

“Uncouth as ever, Potter,” Draco drawled, but Harry was barely listening, for Draco was now hard and naked in his bed, making no attempt to hide any part of himself from Harry’s view, and- dear God- Harry could die a happy man now. He didn’t notice Draco pick up Harry’s wand from the bed, until it was pointed at him.

“My clothes demanded reverence. Yours, however, barely qualify as rags, and won’t be missed,” Draco said. He waved Harry’s wand and Harry was suddenly just as completely naked as Draco, the February air lashing his overheated skin. He shivered, but didn’t think it was entirely due to the cold. He suddenly felt nervous. This was the first time in over three years he’d been naked with another person, and the first time he’d ever seen another man naked, in this context at least. He swallowed hard.

Draco must have noticed, for a flicker of uncertainty crossed features, and Harry could have kicked himself. That look was not at all welcome right now. He threw his arms around Draco’s neck and fell back onto the pillows, pulling Draco back on top of him and kissing him hard, trying to make sure all his feelings and desires went into the kiss.

Draco, apparently appeased, began touching Harry all over with his fingers and tongue. His mouth explored his jaw, his throat and his collarbone, his hand caressed Harry’s arms and hips, stroking the inside of this thighs. Harry was a panting wreck now as his own hands explored, his own tongue tasting Draco’s skin. He was aware he was probably making noises that, was he watching this rather than participating, he would be cringing about, but he just didn’t care. And then, miraculously, the hand stroking his inner thighs trailed upwards, inch by inch, until…

“Holy mother of Merlin,” Harry gasped, as cool, firm fingers wrapped around him and began to move. “Ngh.”

Draco chuckled softly into the crook of Harry’s neck, which did nothing to slow down the pleasure that was surging through him. What was he, fifteen? It had only been about forty seconds. With every drop of willpower he had, Harry grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled it away from him, mourning the loss of the contact, but giving himself a much-needed few seconds to recover. He rolled them over so he was now straddling Draco and, relying on instinct, bent his head and began to lap at Draco’s nipple. Fingers clutched suddenly on Harry’s hips, tight enough to leave marks, and then a noise came from Draco; a noise that sounded just like-

“Draco, are you _purring_?” Harry said, feeling a huge grin spreading across his face.

“No,” Draco said, but he didn’t meet Harry’s eyes.

“Yes you are. You are so fucking purring!” Draco flushed now.

“I may have retained one or two feline characteristics in my human form. Does it bother you?”

“That depends. Will you be purring for anyone else?”

Draco finally met his gaze again, and gave him a look of pure sincerity.

“No. Only for you, Harry.”

Hearing his given name from Draco’s lips was all it took for Harry to fully lose control. He surged forwards, not really knowing what he was doing but not caring much either, and took Draco into his own hand.

“Good. Keep it that way,” he murmured as he began to move, then captured Draco’s mouth once more in a searing kiss, which was far from perfect with the banging of teeth, and saliva on each other’s chins, but that just made it all the more brilliant. Harry gasped and bore down on Draco’s hand when he felt it curl around him once more and there was no way he was going to find the willpower to stop this for a second time: they were going to finish this right here, like this, in Harry’s bed.

It was unlike anything Harry had ever felt before. Two men, hot and sweaty, gasping, and grunting, and pushing together, sighing and kissing and nipping. Harry knew Draco was getting close, which was a good thing as he was tottering on the edge himself, and he knew it would take only the smallest touch to send him spiralling past the point of no return.

“Potter, going to, oh fuck,” Draco panted, but Harry’s hearing had been replaced by a thick buzzing; he tried to keep his eyes open but couldn’t, and his head dropped onto Draco’s shoulder. The flames that had begun to flicker in the pit of his stomach were building and spreading, combusting everything in its path until Harry was quite convinced he was an inferno. He was vaguely aware of Draco shuddering then stiffening below him and letting out a hoarse cry, then he fell off the edge, plummeting towards the unknown as an overwhelming jolt of pleasure slammed into him, robbing him of his breath and his senses. All he was aware of for those few seconds was delightful sensation, reaching a peak he’d never managed to reach before; the buzzing in his ears became louder and he cried out, emptying everything he had into Draco’s fist.

It took Harry a good few minutes to recover and get his breathing under control. Once he finally did, he realised Draco was staring at him.

“If I had known it would have been like that,” Draco said, and Harry was pleased to hear that he, too, was still breathless, “I’d have insisted we did it months ago.” Harry could only not in agreement.

Was it always that spectacular, Harry wondered? Was it because it was finally with another man, or specifically because it was Draco, that he had just had the single most outstanding orgasm of his life? He strongly suspected that it was the latter.

“Sleepy,” he muttered. Only now, fully satiated and lying in bed, did he remember how exhausted he was. It had been a rather busy twenty-four hours. He could also hardly believe what had happened in the last hour, and was wondering if he hadn’t actually dreamt it all.

“Sleep, Potter,” Draco said softly. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

“Harry,” Harry murmured. “You called me Harry earlier.”

“Harry, then.” Draco kissed him softly on the lips. “I did forget you were on nights last night, but I make no apologies for coming.”

Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face at Draco’s double entendre.

*

“What did Ginny say to you? That time she whispered in your ear when you were still a cat?”

It was now evening. Harry had slept for a few hours, woken in Draco’s arms (which had been wonderful, if he was being honest) and showered quickly (all the while marvelling that this was real, it had actually happened, and the large love bite on his neck was proof of that), throwing on clean, respectable, Draco-approved clothes afterwards. They were now in the kitchen, where Harry had made them both a simple dinner of pasta. For once Draco hadn’t passed judgement on the food. He put down the forkful he had brought to his lips and smirked his Malfoy smirk.

“She told me to look after you, or she’d neuter me herself, regardless of whether or not I was actually a cat or human,” he said. “I don’t think she’s too fond of me. She is, however, intensely scary, so I think I had better heed her warning.”

Harry’s heart leapt.

“Does that mean we’re, you know, together now then?”

“Was that not obvious, Potter?”

“So, that’s a yes then?”

“Yes, Scarhead.”

“Good.”

They ate the rest of the meal without talking, but kept shooting each other little smiles, brushing their fingers against one another, or playing footsie. He wondered if this is how Ron and Hermione, or even Ginny and her boyfriend, Nathan, felt: complete, like the object of their affections was the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. There were no guarantees it would work out, of course- that was life, and there were no guarantees about anything. But, Harry decided, as he watched Draco lick pasta sauce from his fingers in a deliberately seductive manner, he was going to give it everything he had. Because right now, he thought (rather sappily, he chastised himself), if the Mirror of Erised was placed in front of him, he really would just see the image of his own reflection as he stood bounced back at him. He reached over and took hold of Draco’s hand.

“What?” Draco said.

“You’re driving me mad with the finger sucking,” Harry replied honestly, noticing as he said so that a definite stir of arousal in his groin.

“Well, a theoretical observation of my oral skills is fun to watch. But I always find a practical demonstration to be far more satisfying, don’t you?” Draco said. Harry gulped.

“Bedroom,” he rasped, fully hard once more.

“Concurred,” Draco replied. “I really have missed sleeping in your bed. Oh, and, Harry, it’s your turn to wear the collar tonight.” He swished his wand and conjured a green and silver collar, which he placed around Harry’s neck. “Perfect. Now, be a good pet and come with me.”

Harry didn’t consider not obeying. Without a thought to the mess he was leaving in the kitchen he instantly stood up and followed Draco into the hallway.

“You look fetching in those colours,” Draco purred. “Come along, my Kitty Kitty.”

Harry smiled. Something told him he was going to enjoy this. Very much.

  



End file.
